


A Moderate Misalignment

by thebermuda



Series: Unabashedly Shameful [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Bukkake, Comeplay, Enthusiastic Consent, Gangbang, Group Sex, Homophobia, Humiliation, Incest, Jimcest - Freeform, Jockstraps, M/M, Mental Illness, Rough Oral Sex, Rugby, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships, brief watersports, mostly consensual, one non-con scene, stutter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mrs. Moriarty despairs over having one son with a stutter and one son with a nasty case of psychosis; Jimmy searches for a way to merge his body with Richard's; Sebastian struggles over his homophobia and his growing feelings for Eton's rugby captain - his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rage and Crocodile Tears

Mrs. Moriarty slammed the door, and the sound of her son’s sobbing was immediately replaced by her own. While she had been composed moments before, she now felt herself shaking at the knees, her hand hovering over her mouth as she gasped. Jimmy wouldn’t hear her sobbing, she knew, because his own shrieks of, “WON’T WON’T WON’T,” and “I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU,” were all that could be heard by every Moriarty in the house. This included James Moriarty, who was waiting for his wife in the kitchen, and Richard Moriarty, who had been told to go upstairs in a vain attempt to hide another one of his brother’s tantrums from him.

After a moment’s pause, she pushed the small table in the hallway and repositioned it in front of the bathroom door. Touching the walls for support, she guided herself to the kitchen. Her husband remained seated in his chair. She leaned against the doorframe, closing her eyes. “Oh, James. Why is he like this? _Why?”_

“You’re bleeding,” James said. 

She glanced down and saw that there was a stream of blood trickling down her leg; she’d led a trail of it from the bathroom to the kitchen. She smoothed her dress, as if to block the wound from sight, and said simply, “Jimmy got agitated.” 

“I don’t know why you had to follow him in there,” James complained. “You’re going to make me late for work.” 

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” she said. 

“I need caffeine in me before I start the day,” he said pointedly, glancing at the coffeemaker. She sighed but rushed to get the coffee beans from the cabinet. 

“I had to bring him food, James. Every boy needs to eat breakfast,” she said. “I think he’d be less agitated if he had some eggs in his system.” 

“I don’t want him eating in the bathroom,” James said. “I told you that. And I want at least three tablespoons of creamer in my coffee. You never use enough creamer.” 

Mrs. Moriarty hummed in absentminded agreement but inwardly she was lost in thought. It was almost the twin’s sixth birthday, soon enough that she’d begun sending invitations to the neighbors and buying party decorations, and Jimmy was _still_ throwing daily tantrums. She didn’t think it was normal for a boy so small to spend hours screaming each day, breaking his toys, and refusing to eat. And what about today? Was it normal for a boy to mock his twin brother for stuttering? (On the other hand, their pediatrician assured that the stuttering _was_ normal, and Richard would grow out of it soon.) Was it normal to be afraid of your son, to have to hide knives and matches from a child? It could be, she supposed. But her instinct told her it was not, and so, instead of planning to seek advice from her neighbors or priest, she buried her fears in her heart and focused on making her husband’s coffee. 

“Here, dear,” she said, handing James the steaming mug. James took a sip and pursed his lips. 

“Too much creamer,” he said. Too exhausted to argue, she merely gave his cheek a peck and wished him a good day. He left a few minutes later, and she attended to her leg. As she searched for the first-aid kit, she could hear Jimmy’s tiny fists pounding against the bathroom door. 

“YOU BITCH. YOU BITCH. LET ME OUT.” 

‘Bitch.’ That was a new one. As always, she wondered vaguely how he learned these insults, but besides this she was unmoved. Jimmy didn’t really want to be let out; he just wanted to know that he was the one in control, the one deciding that he would stay in the bathroom. He was probably going to spend the whole day there, as he often did. It was the only way he could recover from an especially bad tantrum. 

As she pressed a Band-Aid against the cut – it was just a scratch, thank God – she heard the shattering of glass. Great. So Jimmy had broken his breakfast plate. 

For the second time that day, she sighed. Mrs. Moriarty’s sighs were long and deeply-felt, expressing a weariness that stretched back six years. Then, with what remained of her energy, she stood and composed herself. She was going to march upstairs, greet Richard with a smile, and make sure that he had a good day despite Jimmy’s bad behavior. 

But, like every morning, she couldn’t help but dread how long the day would be. 

* * * *

His mummy wished him good night, reminding him to say his prayers, and closed the door. Richard stared at the ceiling. He tried hard not to look at the gaping, interminable darkness that consumed the rest of the room. He felt disoriented in the dark; everything that was familiar became foreign and strange, too hushed, too soft. Everything was inversed – not just the light but the gravity. He had no reference point, couldn’t see what was holding him down, and felt like he was floating in the black. It was only when Jimmy was here that things were okay. When Jim wasn’t in one of his moods, he would scramble onto Richard’s bed. They’d lock hands and pray together, two murmured voices reaching for one another in the darkness, two breaths synchronized. Then they’d have God watching over them. Richard was pretty sure that God could hear prayers better when _two_ little boys said them, instead of one. 

Not that Richard could say them alone anyway. Not with the way he stuttered. Somehow, though, when he and Jimmy spoke in unison, his tongue didn’t fumble like it normally did. He could only speak to God if Jimmy were around. 

Not that Mummy knew that. Mummy thought…

Mummy thought a lot of things. Mummy was wrong. 

He took several minutes to gather the courage to move in the pitch black, but eventually he did. Flinging away his covers, he let his bare soles hit the cold hardwood floor and he ran to the door, swinging it open. He dashed down the hallway, trying not to make too much noise as he passed his parents’ bedroom. Their lights were already out, but he could hear their voices, deep in conversation. Probably discussing Jim. 

He pitter-pattered down the stairs and tiptoed through the first floor hallway. In front of the bathroom was a table. It took Richard a couple of minutes to figure out how he could slide it away from the door – he had to lay on his back and push it with his feet. Once this was accomplished, though, he opened the door and peaked in. 

“Jimmy?” he whispered. A quick scan of the bathroom showed him that Jim had taken the food from the breakfast plate their mum had set out for him and smeared it all over the floor and walls. Eggs and fried potatoes looked unappetizing on the bathroom tiles. 

His brother was curled up on the floor, his head against the toilet. His eyes flickered open as Richard came in, but quickly closed. 

“H-hi, Jimmy,” Richard said, shutting the door behind him. Even though he knew Jim had cut their mummy just that afternoon, he felt secure in the knowledge that Jim would never hurt him. Fearlessly, he sat next to his brother, running his fingers through his brother’s hair. “It’s o-o-okay, Jimmy. It’s f-fine.” 

Jim shook his head, leaning into Richard’s hand so that Richard would keep stroking. 

“She hates me,” Jim grumbled. “Mummy hates me.” 

Suddenly, he jumped up, clutching the toilet seat. He lifted it, only to bring it crashing back down. It made a terrible sound, like it might crack, and Jim screamed: “She hates me, she hates me, she hates me!” 

Richard stood and wrapped his arms around Jim’s middle. 

“T-t-that’ssss not t-true. Why-why would she h-hate you?” Richard was frustrated by the way his tongue always got stuck between his teeth, or how all his muscles would tighten and he’d pause, mid-word. But unlike Dad and Mummy, or any of the neighborhood boys, Jimmy never got impatient with him. Mummy would try to finish Richard’s sentences for him, or tell him to take deep breaths, which never helped. Jimmy let Richard take his time. 

“She wouldn’t even let me explain the game,” Jim said. “She would have let _you_ explain the game.” 

Jim met the game that Mummy had tried to put Jim in time-out for. She’d thought Jim had been mocking Richard for stammering, earlier, when she heard Jim mimicking Richard’s speech patterns. When Jim had told her it was a game, she hadn’t understood. And, anyway, it wasn’t really a game. It was a project. They weren’t ready to explain it in full to anyone yet, though, in case it didn’t work right. 

“M-maybe sshhhe heard you w-when we w-were playing with B-bobby.” Bobby from next door had a lisp, and Jim made ‘a game’ of imitating it and making Bobby cry. Richard wished he wouldn’t do that, but Jim always laughed when Bobby cried. He never laughed when Richard cried, though. 

“But you’re not Bobby. _Duh,”_ Jim said. His face was red from all of his screaming, and he had crust in his eyes from dried up tears. He looked exhausted. 

“L-let’s have a bu-bu-bubble bath,” Richard said. “C-c-come on. It’ll m-make you f-f-feeeel better.” 

Jim didn’t move. He stared at the toilet seat like he might start slamming it again, but Richard let him go. He turned the tub faucet, started the water, and opened the bottle of Mummy’s pink bubbles, letting them flow out. They mingled with the gushing water and released the sweet, pleasant aroma of strawberries. 

After several minutes had passed, and the bathtub was full of soapy, sudsy water, he said, “C-c-come on, Jimmy, g-get in the bath.” 

Jim simply stared at the toilet seat, and Richard wondered if he was going into one of his no-moving, no-speaking moods. Richard hoped not, because it sometimes took Jim days to get out of those, and Richard still hadn’t figured out how to help him with them. But warm things tended to work when Jim had temper tantrums: Richard could wrap him up in an electric blanket, make him cocoa, cuddle with him, or, in this case, draw a nice bath. 

After a moment, Jim budged. He pulled down the elastic band of his trousers and scooted out of them. While he undressed, Richard got a washcloth from beneath the bathroom sink and began to wash the eggs off the floor. He didn’t clean up the shattered plate, however, because Mummy had told him never to touch broken glass. 

Jim got in the water while Richard cleaned, but he gave no sign that he enjoyed it. It wasn’t until the bathroom was back in its pristine state, minus the plate, that Richard followed after his brother, undressing and getting into the bath. The water was still cozily warm, and Richard giggled as bubbles tickled his chin. 

“Here,” Richard said. He picked up a washcloth and wet it. “L-let me w-wash you.” 

He brought the cloth behind Jim’s ears, scrubbing lightly. At first Jim didn’t move, but he must have liked the way it felt because he was soon leaning into the touch, bending his neck so that Richard could reach him better. Then he turned around, and Richard knew he wanted his back scrubbed. Richard obliged. He loved the way his brother looked just like him, down to the freckle they both had over their left shoulder blades. It was such a reassurance to have someone in the world who looked exactly like him, and when he washed Jim he felt like he was cleaning himself, too. He always felt safest and happiest when he got to be with his brother, even if his brother was going through a mood. 

“D-d-dear G-god,” he spoke up suddenly, “t-thank You for g-g-giving me a twin brother. I love Jimmy very, very, very, very m-much!” 

The bathroom was silent except for the occasional slosh of water. Then, staring into the bubbles, Jim said quietly, “Dear God: Thank you for giving me Richard.” 

Richard smiled, and Jim finally looked him in the eyes. “I’m tired,” Jim said, and his words were interrupted by a great yawn that momentarily overwhelmed him. 

Richard yawned just as loudly, and the two boys giggled. They loved doing things in unison. Richard scooted to the other end of the bath, pulling the bath plug. The water gurgled and began to drain. 

Richard got out first, grabbing a thick, soft white towel and holding it open for his brother. After Jim was wrapped up and snug, Richard dried himself off and put his pajamas back on. 

After nearly ten hours of throwing a tantrum in the bathroom, Jim finally left, feeling refreshed but tired. Richard held his hand and, together, they went upstairs and crawled into Richard’s bed, to sleep. 


	2. Late Night Loathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written anything like this before, so I'm sorry if it's completely horrible. You are welcome to leave constructive criticism. I'm sure that I need it!

Around the time when Jimmy and Richard were on their way to a restful, peaceful sleep, thirteen year-old Sebastian Moran was causing ruckus in an Eton dorm. 

“GET OUT.” He picked up a hardback book from his bedside table and threw it across the room. It missed Severin’s head by inches, hitting the wall instead. He lowered his voice so that the house master wouldn’t hear him and said, “Get out, you fucking arse. I need to study!” 

Severin didn’t look at his brother, but his lips stretched into an impish grin. Several magazines were laid out before him. Sebastian couldn’t see them from this angle, but he knew what they depicted: scantily-clad or entirely nude women in various compromising positions. They’d nicked the magazines from their dad’s closet the last time they were home. They couldn’t risk the house master finding them, so Sebastian kept them hidden in his room, and Severin would come in and take them out whenever he pleased. Right now, he pleased. 

Trousers and pants thrown aside, Severin laid on the floor, hand reaching down below as he played with his cock. His head jerked as he dodged Sebastian’s flurry of thrown books, pens, and shoes, but his hand never stopped its rhythm. He made no attempt to be even remotely discreet about it, and it sent Sebastian’s blood boiling. Sebastian felt itchy, squirmy, lightheaded. There was an intense heat coiling around his middle, and the only way he could hide his discomfort was by feigning rage. 

“You fucking weirdo,” he hissed. He threw a pen, and it bounced off Severin’s forehead. 

Severin had no response, except to part his lips and moan. Sebastian’s heartbeat quickened. 

“Tosser,” Sebastian said. His comforter covered him. “Fucking prat.” 

He threw a textbook. Severin blocked it with his forearm. Sebastian searched for something else to throw, but stopped. Severin had tensed. Sebastian stared, transfixed – entirely forgetting, for a moment, that he was supposed to find Severin disgusting. 

Severin sat up on his knees, hand bobbing along the length of his shaft faster than ever, his lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. With a single, decisive grunt, he came, head thrown back, features fixed in an expression of absolute satisfaction, desperation fulfilled. The image was so mesmerizing that Sebastian could do nothing but gape. 

A moment passed. Severin released his twitching cock, looking at the floor with some satisfaction. Come was pooled at his knees. He observed it for a moment, and his eyes flickered momentarily up at Sebastian. A mischievous smile marked his lips. 

“You want me to get out?” he said, quickly pulling on his trousers, leaving his pants behind. “Okay.” 

And, sniggering, he left. Leaving his mess behind. 

Sebastian groaned. 

“Gross fucker,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. His fingernails sank into his sheets like claws, and he pulled, beginning to tear at the material. With Severin gone, the room was quiet, not allowing him to ignore the heavy sounds of his own labored breathing. He was practically panting in complete absence of anything physically strenuous. Perspiration dotted the back of his neck and, after a moment, he lifted his head and looked across the room. 

It was still there. Was Severin expecting him to clean it up? Pervert. 

And yet Sebastian couldn’t stop looking at it. Slowly, he slipped out from beneath his covers and stood, walking to the other side of the room. Here, he could smell Severin’s deodorant, mixed with perspiration leftover from their earlier rugby game. The scent surrounded him, inescapable, and he fell to his knees. Before settling, he slipped off his pajama pants, pulling them down to his thighs, releasing his own straining erection. 

When he smeared it on his palm, he found that his brother’s come was still warm, and, although a bit sticky, good enough for his purposes. He felt nauseous, but watched with a sort of queasy wonder as Severin’s milky white come smeared over the head of his own cock, and the heat, the intimacy of it, elicited a stuttered gasp. He was just setting into a bobbing rhythm, almost his entire cock lubricated by his brother’s come, when he heard the door open. 

“I forgot my backpack – ” Severin stopped mid-sentence. Realizing the house master could be patrolling outside, he quickly slid in and closed the door behind him. Sebastian scrambled up, yanking his pajama bottoms back on. 

“I wasn’t – ” he began. 

“It’s – it’s fine,” Severin said. “I don’t mi– ” 

“I said _I wasn’t,”_ Sebastian snapped. His lust diminished, overwhelmed by shame, then anger, then the need to _move._ He stepped toward the door and slammed his brother against it, pinning him by the shoulders. “I wasn’t doing _anything,_ got it?” 

“Seb, it’s really okay. I – ” 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Sebastian’s voice was low and steady, but just barely controlled. If it hadn’t been for the house master, he would have shouted. “Get out.” 

“Seb, I – ” 

_“Get – !”_

Severin took his brother’s shoulders and pulled him forward. Their lips clashed. Severin kissed messily, with too much tongue, too much energy, and when he pulled away they were both panting. Sebastian stared at Severin, blue eyes dazed. 

“I said it’s fine,” Severin repeated softly. “It’s okay.” 

Wary of his brother hitting him again, he sank to his knees. Sebastian merely watched, half repulsed, half anticipatory. Severin pulled Sebastian’s pajama pants back down, and the sight of his half-hard, come-covered cock made his own cock stir once more. His brother’s cock was covered in _his_ come, in Severin’s load, and to think – if he hadn’t forgotten his dumb backpack, he would have missed it. 

He laughed, because the thought was absurd, because he was relieved to know he wasn’t the only boy in the pair who wanted the other. Then, as if it was a perfectly natural thing to do, he took his brother’s length into his mouth. 

He could taste his own come on his tongue, salty and strange, but not unpleasant. Sebastian groaned, and it pleased Severin to know that he had even an ounce of control over Sebastian, that he was able to distract his brother enough to make him forget his own violent urges. 

Sebastian pressed his palms against the door, bucking forward, shoving his cock deeper down Severin’s throat. Severin sputtered, coughing, but Sebastian couldn’t stop. Severin’s tight sucking felt amazing, far better than his own hand, and soon he was coming, shooting his load down Severin’s throat. He stayed in Severin's mouth until he went soft, allowing Severin to swallow. His cock made a delicious, wet popping sound as it left Severin’s mouth. Sebastian took a moment to catch his breath, eyes closed. Severin waited patiently on his knees. 

It wasn’t until Severin spoke that Sebastian came back to reality. 

“Would you do that to me, sometime?” 

Sebastian opened his eyes. He looked down, finding Severin rosy-cheeked and breathless. His red lips had a drop of come on them, his blonde hair disheveled. He looked, Sebastian knew, exactly the way Sebastian would look if Sebastian had just sucked cock. The rage this induced was unprecedented: for a split second, Sebastian felt unhinged. He wanted to hurt his brother, _kill_ his brother. 

“Do I look like a fucking cocksucker?” he growled. He looked around wildly, spotted his coat hanging from the hook on the door, and reached into its pocket. He extracted a pocketknife – a Christmas gift from dad. 

“Get out, Sev,” he said, pointing the knife’s sharp tip at Severin’s neck. “And I swear to fucking Christ, if you tell _anyone…”_

Severin said nothing, only darted away from the blade. Sebastian backed up to let his brother out the door, and Severin shut the door behind him. 

Sebastian was shaking. The whole room was spinning, and he thought he was going to be sick. His dad was going to kill him. The house master was going to kill him. God was going to kill him. 

And kill Severin, too. 

Sebastian roared. He picked up Severin’s backpack, still left on the floor, and ran his knife through it. He slashed at the cloth, again and again, until the bag was in tatters. Then he tossed it to the ground, dropped the knife, and crawled into bed. 

He was going to Hell and it was all Severin’s fault. 

He turned out his lights and wept. 


	3. First Failings to Align

“I-ifff anyone s-sssays, ‘I lo-love G-God,’ and hates his b-b-brother, he i-i-i-i-i-i – ” Richard’s tongue felt trapped, and he fell silent, blushing furiously. Jim stroked his cheek – a gesture of, _There’s nothing to be ashamed of,_ – and then Jim repeated after Richard, with an identical cadence: 

“I-ifff anyone s-sssays, ‘I lo-love G-God,’ and hates his b-b-brother, he i-i-i-i-iissss l-lyyying.” 

The boys heard Mummy coming up the stairs. They slammed their Bible shut and swept it beneath Jim’s bed, both jumping to their feet. Mummy had no idea that the boys had taught themselves to read, and Jim had instructed Richard not to tell anyone. 

The bedroom door opened. Mummy peered in. 

“You boys better get ready for bed,” she said. Both boys nodded, beginning to undress, and the door closed again. As they got into their pajamas, Jim grinned. 

“That was the best one yet!” he hissed. 

“You sssounded ju-u-ust l-like me,” Richard agreed. Something about the way Jimmy looked when he fake-stuttered, though, made Richard want to cry. Richard had not known, for instance, that his whole face twitched when he made the ‘lo’ sound, and he had never before observed the way that his own bottom lip quivered when making the ‘b’ sound. Jim’s face had been full of twitches and ticks, and Richard felt more self-conscious of his stutter than ever. 

Their mum came back and tucked them each into their separate beds, reminding them to say their prayers. As soon as she closed the door, Jim left his bed and padded over to Richard. He snuck under Richard’s covers and, holding hands, the two boys prayed. 

“Our-our Father, Who ar-ar-art in H-heaven,” they stuttered in unison. Jim’s unnatural stammer made them giggle. In the dark, when Richard couldn’t see Jim’s face, he liked to hear his brother stutter. 

“Jimmy?” Richard said, when they were finished their prayer and drifting off to sleep. 

“Yeah?” 

“H-how is th-this su-upposed to work, a-again?” 

“How is what supposed to work, Richie?” 

“The pr-project,” Richard said. “Us.” 

“I _told_ you. I read it in a book,” Jim said. Their mum took them to the library after church on Sundays, but she had no idea that Jim spent most of his time reading books in the grown-up section. “People behave the way they behave for two reasons: nature, and nurture. Nature is how you’re born, and nurture is where you’re raised. We have the same nature, Richie. So if our nurture is the same then we can be identical people,” Jim said excitedly. “Some twins get separated at birth, but we – ” 

“Why?” Richard asked, horrified. This idea would be the source of many future nightmares for him. 

“Various reasons,” Jim said carelessly. “But we haven’t been, Rich. We have the _same_ environment. Which means that if we do the same things, at the same time, all the time, then –”

“ – we can b-be the sssame p-person!” Richard finished excitedly. 

“The exact same person,” Jim assured. 

“But…” Richard frowned. “Th-that soundsss ha-hard. H-how can w-we guarant-tee we’ll alwaysss b-be together?” 

“Don’t worry about it, Rich,” Jim said. He wrapped an arm about Richard and pulled him close, snuggling. “I’ll take care of all the hard parts. You just have to follow me.” 

“Alright,” Richard said, and he rested his head in the crook of Jim’s arm. Both brothers were oblivious to the irony of trying to be the same person when, already, there were unchangeable differences. 

* * * *

Weeks went by. Jim and Richard accomplished a task that few boys so young would have enough discipline to even attempt: they did everything together, from watching movies to eating, using the bathroom, and speaking. While their project did nothing to change their innate characters, it did made them exceptionally good at mirroring each other. They disconcerted Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty by speaking at the same time, all the time, until finally their father wouldn’t let them talk around him. This made Richard cry, so Jim began to cry, too, and the project ended in failure. 

But the boys would not be deterred. 

* * * *

“Ow! Jimmy, th-that h-hurts!” 

“Hold still,” Jim hissed. 

“But _why?”_ Richard whined, although he obeyed his brother, keeping still as Jim matted the side of his head with a healthy dose of super glue, spreading the sticky liquid in his hair. Jim had nicked the glue from their father’s workshop in the garage, and he worked diligently, wanting to put it back before anyone realized it was gone. 

“Press,” Jim said, and Richard pressed his head against Jim’s, just as Jim had instructed him to. As they waited for the glue to dry, Jim said, “I was reading all about twins last night. Mummy has lots of books about twins, so I took one.” 

The glue was beginning to get uncomfortably stiff, and their hair was knotting, but Richard liked the sudden contact. He could feel Jim’s warmth, and it was soothing. He reached out and took Jim’s hand. 

“There are these special twins called conjoined twins,” Jim continued. “They’re stuck together so that you can’t tell where one starts and where the other one ends.” 

Richard smiled. He liked that idea. 

“S-so we’ll be l-like c-conjoined twins?” he asked. 

“No. We’ll _be_ conjoined twins. You can’t tell anyone we’re not, Richie, okay? If you do they might separate us, and put us in different classes.” This morning was going to be their first day of school. They were taking the school bus on the corner, so their parents wouldn’t see the fruits of Jim’s latest scheme before they left. 

“I w-won’t,” Richard promised. Jim squeezed his brother’s hand and, clumsily, the stuck-together boys shuffled awkwardly out of their bedroom. 

* * * *

Jim had been right: The two boys had been assigned different teachers. Richard was in Mrs. MacAteer’s class, but Jim was in Mrs. Barry’s. They waddled into Mrs. Barry’s classroom together, still holding hands, and approached Mrs. Barry’s desk. Both boys flashed her large, scared eyes, their necks craned as the sides of their heads touched. 

Mrs. Barry did a double take, as the boys were quite convincingly stuck together, but her kind face soon adopted the type of sympathetic expression most fitting for a kindergarten teacher. 

“Welcome to your first day of school, boys! I’m sure you’ll love kindergarten!” she promised. 

Jim began to cry. Richard hadn’t expected him to do this – it was always Richard who cried, it seemed – but Richard soon followed Jim’s lead, if only because the sound of his brother crying was enough to bring real tears to Richard’s eyes. 

“What’s wrong, boys?” Mrs. Barry asked. 

“My brother and me have been assigned different classes,” Jim sniffed. “But we can’t – we can’t – ” He sobbed loudly. 

That made Mrs. Barry pause for a minute – conjoined twins, assigned to different classes, what to do? – but she soon said, “Don’t worry. What are your names?” 

“This is Richie,” Jim pointed, “and I’m Jimmy.” 

“Well, Richie, Jimmy, there’s just been a mistake. Grown-ups make mistakes, too, sometimes. You’ll both be staying here,” Mrs. Barry promised. 

And so it was that, until the glue began to peel in dry, white flakes, Jimmy and Richie had the entire kindergarten class thinking they were attached at the head. 


	4. Thursday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Severin's awkward first time.

The key to good cunnilingus, Sebastian thought, was repetition. Once he found that sweet spot – a certain twitch of the finger up her cunt, or a subtle flick of the tongue on her clit – she would mewl, and he would only need to keep lapping until her cunt and his face were soaked with her juices. The reward, for him, was pressing his face against her mound while she climaxed, and feeling the way her muscles contracted with pleasure as he overwhelmed her. That, for Sebastian, was fulfilling.

He’d known this particular maid – Ann – would be a treat. Severin and he had seduced almost every maid on their floor in their Eton hall, but Ann they’d saved for last. She was a daring one, and six years older than their fifteen – not that age proved much of an obstacle for the Moran twins. What they lacked in age they made up for with their wiry physiques, well-defined muscles having been sculpted by two years of rugby and the gift of good genes. And what they had once lacked in experience they had made up for in raw sexual energy – energy that would remain a stable part of their characters for the rest of their lives. 

Right now, all of that energy was being focused on Ann’s pussy. Her legs wrapped around Sebastian’s shoulders and, at the head of the bed, her hands clung to Severin’s upper arms. Severin lay over her, alternating between kissing her lips and her breasts. Right now he sucked on her left nipple, and the combined sensation of this, along with the constant stimulation on her clit, was soon going to drive her over the edge. 

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” Sebastian growled, knowing well the effect that his deep voice had on women. He admired Ann’s breasts from this angle, but it was the sight of his brother lavishing Ann that made Sebastian harder than ever, until he felt himself reaching down to stroke his own cock. As he did so, he dived back into Ann’s pussy, his entire mouth and chin wet with her juices. 

The bed creaked, but Ann and Sebastian were both too submerged in Ann’s pleasure to notice. Sebastian was unaware of Severin crawling off the bed and approaching Sebastian’s end. Severin positioned himself with his back pressed against the mattress, he head between Sebastian’s thighs. He caught the head of Sebastian’s cock in his mouth, giving it a taste. It’d been two years since he’d tasted his brother’s cock, and he closed his eyes, moaning and savoring it. 

The moaning sent off amazing vibrations, making Sebastian hiss. Encouraged, Severin continued to suck. When Sebastian didn’t have to look at his brother and _see_ the sins before him, it became much easier to enjoy. Severin’s mouth was warm and wet, and Sebastian found himself growling against Ann’s pussy, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Severin licked his hot tongue up and down Sebastian’s length, and Sebastian shivered, breathing heavily over Ann’s pussy, which made her shudder in response. He was no longer tongue-fucking her, though, as he was far too distracted by Severin’s mouth. She looked up to see why the Moran twins had abandoned her. 

Sebastian’s lust-filled eyes met hers for a moment, and then he saw her gaze slip past him, to Severin, who was reaching up with one hand to fondle his brother’s balls. 

Sebastian snapped out of it. A lifetime of shame hit him like a mallet against a gong, and, eyes still on Ann, he retaliated. 

He kneed Severin in the head. Severin grunted, grabbing his forehead, and was kicked off the bed. He crashed to the floor, and Ann scrambled to her knees. 

“Are you alright…?” she began. 

“What the fuck?” Sebastian’s voice grew too loud. He couldn’t help it: Ann had _seen_ them, seen Severin touching him. It felt very important, right then, to make sure Ann knew how entirely heterosexual and disinterested in his brother he was. “Are you fucking gay? What the fuck were you just doing?” 

“Calm down, Seb,” Severin said. His features were scrunched in pain, and blood was flowing from where Sebastian’s knee had met his forehead. 

“You make me sick,” Sebastian declared. Meanwhile, Ann was standing up and reaching for her skirt, pulling it on. Both boys looked at her. 

“I’m sorry about my brother,” they said in unison. They glared at each other. It was bad enough when they spoke at the same time during regular occasions – when they were pissed at each other, though, it was even worse. 

“Sorry my brother’s a fag,” Sebastian clarified. 

“I hope my brother didn’t scare you, Ann,” Severin elaborated. 

Ann said nothing, getting dressed as quickly as possible. Neither boys moved as she neared the door, although both felt it was a great disappointment to see her go. They were right in thinking she wouldn’t be coming back. Still, Severin had to try. 

“My brother won’t be here tomorrow night,” he called after her as she opened the door. “It’ll just be us – ” 

And the door slammed shut, cutting him off. Severin cursed. 

Sebastian didn’t move from the bed. He watched Severin, trying to determine how much he was bleeding, whether or not he had a concussion. He was also trying to decide whether he wanted to apologize and find him an icepack, or inflict even more damage. 

Eventually, Severin said, “What’s wrong?” He said it in a voice of concern rather than anger, as if Sebastian had complained of not feeling well. There was a pause. 

“What’s wrong?” Sebastian repeated. “What’s _wrong?_ Maybe that my brother can’t keep his mouth off my cock. You _are_ a faggot, aren’t you?” 

Severin took a deep breath, staring at the carpet. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, I am. And you’re right. I _can’t_ keep my mouth off your cock.” He lifted his eyes, gazing steadily at Sebastian. “I think about it, constantly. I _dream_ about it. My brother Sebastian’s big, fat cock in my mouth, and me getting to slurp down all his yummy come.” Severin chuckled as he observed Sebastian’s icy stare. “Am I making you angrier? Are you going to hurt me for saying that? Because I want you to. It feels _good_ when you hurt me.” 

Sebastian’s upper lip twitched, his hands clenching into fists. He didn’t move, though. He was frozen with rage. 

“There’s nothing you can do to make me want you less,” Severin said. “So come on.” He spread out his arms, as if inviting Sebastian in for a hug. “Hurt me, big brother. Come – ” 

Sebastian launched off the bed. He rammed into Severin, and both boys fell to the floor. He pinned Severin down and punched him, again and again, in the stomach. 

Severin curled up instinctively, but he made no attempt to fight back. His eyes were frenzied, wild, and the harder Sebastian hit him the more he laughed. 

“Make me bleed, big brother. _Christ – yes!_ That feels good.” 

Sebastian looked down at Severin’s cock, still hard, and the sight of it made him roar. He flipped his brother over, grabbing him by the neck and shoving his face into the carpet. Anything to muffle his stupid mouth, his stupid fucking – 

Suddenly, Sebastian realized how he would look to an outsider’s eyes: naked, straddling Severin as Severin lay on his stomach. Sebastian scrambled off Severin’s back, breathless and flushed, feeling duped. 

Severin looked back to see what had triggered the change, and he seemed – as he often did – to read Sebastian’s mind. 

“Darling brother, you think fags fuck like this? With the bottom all flat on the floor? No, Seb, I’d have to be like _this.”_ Severin repositioned himself, arching his arse into the air. He looked over his shoulder, saw his brother’s horrified expression, and grinned. “You’re aching for it, Seb, and don’t pretend you’re not. I can see.” Sebastian looked down at his own cock, which had remained hard through Severin’s beating. “You can take it if you want, brother. Because I’m offering.” Severin wiggled his arse, smirking over his shoulder. 

Sebastian looked down at his neglected, swollen prick. He swallowed, but when he spoke his voice still came out hoarse: “Will it – will it hurt you?” 

“Just enter slowly. Warm me up first,” Severin said. “It shouldn’t be too hard. This isn’t my first time.” 

“It’s not?” Sebastian said. He imagined a sudden sea of faceless boys, all using his brother. But Severin had never mentioned anything before, and besides – Sebastian had been so sure they shared all of their sexual encounters together. Sebastian had never been with a single woman Severin hadn’t. He said, accusingly, “You never told me.” 

He felt childish. 

“Yeah, well. It was hard enough not to be able to do it with you. I didn’t want to have to hear your sarcastic remarks when I did it with other guys, too.” Severin’s voice was low, bitter, reflecting an emotion that Sebastian hadn’t anticipated: hurt. He had, apparently, suffered longer and more intensely than Sebastian was in this moment, and the consequences of Sebastian’s rejections – from the first time when they were thirteen, to all the occasions after that – were made apparent to him: he had lost the opportunity to be with Severin during one of the most intimate moments of Severin’s life, his first time, and so the trust Severin could have placed in him was placed in some other, nameless boy. Sebastian felt resolute in his decision. 

“Where’s your lube?” he asked. 

Severin peered over his shoulder again, as if he could scarcely believe his ears. When he saw that Sebastian was serious, he smiled. 

“The bedside table,” he said. 

Sebastian made a quick job of grabbing it. The room was silent but for Sebastian and Severin’s loud, shaking breaths. In those breaths they communicated, Sebastian expressing through his shallow exhalations his nervousness, and Severin’s deep inhalations serving to comfort him. And both boys’ breaths shook with lust, with want and need too long denied. 

Sebastian spread Severin’s pale cheeks, looking with some bemusement at Severin’s hole, as if he wasn’t sure of how to approach it. It wasn’t wet and open like a cunt, it looked so _small,_ and Sebastian couldn’t imagine it not hurting. Overly cautious, he held the bottle of lube over Severin’s hole and squeezed it. 

Immediately, Severin laughed. He fell out of his position, onto his stomach, cracking up. He cock was only half-hard now. Sebastian frowned, red-faced. 

“What did I do wrong?” he growled. 

“You don’t need the whole bottle in one go, Seb. Jesus.” Severin’s laughter died off into chuckles. He sat up, reaching for a towel off his floor. Severin was right: there was so much lube that it was dripping onto the carpet. He wiped some of it off and said, “Let’s try again.” 

Sebastian personally felt that the mood had been broken, but Severin insisted on getting onto the bed in a second attempt. Before that, however, he turned around. Sebastian evaded his brother’s gaze, looking at the threads of Severin’s white sheets. Severin cupped Sebastian’s cheek, forcing him to meet his stare, and their blue eyes met. Severin leaned forward, meeting Sebastian, tongue slipping into his mouth. He tasted his brother, softly, and although Sebastian didn’t respond he didn’t push him away, either. He sat like stone as Severin kissed him, until Severin finally pulled away. 

“Right,” Severin said. “So your gay little brother wants you to fuck him in the arse. Let’s do this, shall we?” 

“You’re so fucking weird,” Sebastian said, but he couldn’t prevent the whine that escaped his lips as Severin lay down. His arse was prompted up by pillows this time, and Sebastian felt desire flood through him at the sight. 

He prodded the tip of his finger into Severin’s hole slowly, almost pulling out when Severin gasped. 

“Faster!” Severin complained. 

Sebastian retorted, “I’m trying not to hurt you.” 

“Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me,” Severin immediately chanted. He was bucking at the pillows with impatience, strong arms clawing at his sheets. “Hurt me, brother…” 

Hurt? Sebastian could do ‘hurt.’ In fact, hurting others was something of his forte. When his finger breached the tight ring of muscle, Severin gasped again, although decidedly not with hurt. 

“I’m _ready,”_ Severin insisted. Deciding to listen, Sebastian lined his straining cock against Severin’s hole. He then did two things simultaneously: he pushed the tip of his cock forward, and spanked Severin’s cheek with a resounding _crack!_

The result was a magnificent yelp on Severin’s part, and then a stream of pleas and threats for Sebastian to hurry the fuck up. Sebastian pushed himself in to the hilt, and the unfamiliar sensation elicited a surprised grunt from his mouth. It was _tight._ It was like Severin’s muscles were squeezing his cock, and Sebastian panted, setting into a rhythm. 

“Feels good, yeah?” Severin said. 

“Fuck yes,” Sebastian cried. “Better than any pussy.” 

Sebastian delivered another smack to Severin’s arse, making Severin cry out. Severin was biting the sheets between his teeth, practically gagging himself, and so it took a moment for Sebastian to realize that Severin was making more than incoherent moans – he was saying something: “Harder.” 

Sebastian smacked harder, a red handprint blooming on Severin’s cheek. He rutted into his brother’s hole, feeling a lack of restraint he’d never felt in his life. A few of the maid’s liked being spanked, too, but he never dared hit them with his full strength, or even fuck them with the brutal pace he’d always wanted. Severin, on the other hand, was taking it like a – like a – 

Well, like a Moran. 

When Sebastian came, it was the strongest orgasm he’d ever had in his entire life. He filled Severin’s arsehole with hot ropes of come, Severin’s orgasm making his muscles contract around Sebastian’s cock, milking every last drop from him. 

Sebastian slipped out, admiring the sight before him. His brother’s arse was a speckled purple, handprints spread all over it, and come dripped out of his hole, dirtying the sheets. 

Severin panted and rolled over, looking up at Sebastian with a hazy, post-coital grin. 

“That was fun,” he said, utterly breathless and spent. “Let’s try this again sometime.” 

It took a moment – foggy as he was – to realize that Sebastian wasn’t smiling back at him. Sebastian’s eyes had gone steely blue again, and his fingers were twitching. Severin tensed. 

“Seb?” he said. “Seb, are you alright?” 

Sebastian looked forward, but it was like he couldn’t see his brother. Then, suddenly, he stood and began pulling on his trousers. 

“Seb – Seb, I thought you liked that,” Severin said, all of the joy fading from his face. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m going to be sick,” Sebastian said. He pulled on his T-shirt. Severin reached for him, touching his shoulder, but Sebastian smacked his hand away. He looked, for a moment, like he was contemplating doing much worse. Then, with an anguished cry, he turned around and grabbed the nearest thing in sight. A British flag – one of the many Severin had on his walls – came tumbling down. Sebastian tore at it and fled, slamming the door behind him. 

When he got to his own room, he retched. 


	5. Carl Powers

“Jimmy?” Her saw her slippers and skinny, bare ankles from this angle; the hem of her bathrobe and the bruises he’d made on her thighs from where he’d last punched her. There was the hesitant shuffle of feet; she was scared to come in, like she thought he was waiting for her in the dark, ready to ambush her. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t trust him. She never worried about Richard hurting her. “Jimmy, don’t you want to come out and say good night?”

If she actually wanted him to come out, she’d look for him. He was just under the bed, he wasn’t that hard to find. But she didn’t care about him. She just pretended to. 

As proof, seconds passed and she closed the door. The light from the hall was blocked, and Jim was left alone in darkness. 

Alone. 

Nobody cared about him. He’d thought Richard did, but Richard had _abandoned_ him. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Jim had refused to go to school today, as he was now refusing to go most days (second grade was so _boring),_ and Richard had gone without him, because Richard always went to school. Then, at half past two, Mummy went to pick Richard up. Jim waited by the door for Richard to come home, but at three o’clock, only Mummy appeared at the front door. 

Richard had left him. Gone to another boy’s house. For a _sleepover._

Jim tried to make Mummy bring Richard home. He wasn’t allowed to go, not without Jim. Jim had scratched and clawed and punched, and when Mummy picked him up he’d kneed her in the tummy. She’d wrestled him back into his room, and he’d screamed, because Richard was gone, gone, _gone._

He hated Richard. 

The floor was hard and dark, and his bed sank low, metal slats cutting into the back of his head. It was better if he stayed down here, though, because he couldn’t remember having ever slept in his own bed, and he wasn’t going to sleep in Richard’s. He didn’t want to have to smell Richard’s nasty, traitor scent. 

He squirmed, hand reaching to his trousers – he hadn’t changed into pajamas when Mummy told him to – and wiggled his fingers, trying to get to the flashlight he’d put in his pocket. He finally grasped it, letting it rest on the carpet and flicking it on. Before him was the book he’d been reading almost all afternoon _(Chronometry in 16th Century China)._ He was going to read all night, and sleep all day Saturday until Richard got back. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when Richard returned. 

Hours passed, and he let his mind become absorbed with the mathematics of ancient time-keeping; these concepts were elementary to him, now, but their stable simplicity served as a comfort. He’d reread this book half a dozen times. 

He didn’t feel himself drift off, but drift off he did, head slumping between the opened pages of the book. He didn’t wake up at 1 A.M., when the phone rang, nor at ten after, when his mother left her bedroom and made her way downstairs. What did wake him up was the sound of the front door slamming, and what truly roused him was a slow, creeping awareness of something very warm down below…

Oh, no. Not tonight. 

He groaned. He hated this. He was eight years-old and still wetting the bed almost monthly – or, in this case, wetting the floor. His pants felt moist and itchy, and the putrid scent of ammonia wafted through the room. His face burned with shame. It may have seemed strange to other boys, who had crueler siblings, but he wished Richard was with him. Richard hadn’t wet the bed in years, but he was never disgusted by Jim when Jim sullied his sheets. Briefly, Jim let himself bask in the fantasy, based very much on memories, of Richard running comforting fingers through Jim’s hair, or leaving soft kisses on his forehead. Richard was the only person in the world who ever touched him like that. The way Mummy should. 

But Richard didn’t want to be around him anymore. 

Jim pushed his book away from him, and flicked off his flashlight and rolled it across the floor. Trying not to dirty himself further, he scooted out from under the bed. He needed to clean before morning came. Sliding out of his wet trousers and pants, he went to the bedroom dresser and opened up the drawer. Richard’s drawer. He sifted through his brother’s sweaters until he found Richard’s favorite sweater, the one with the friendly lion printed on the front. Then, rolling it around his hand, he kicked the drawer shut and proceeded to reach under his bed, soaking up the urine with Richard’s sweater. 

When the mess was cleaned up, he bundled his dirtied shorts, trousers, and Richard’s sweater into a bag. Then he crawled onto his bed and stood, using all of his strength to open one of the bedroom windows. He opened the storm screen and let the bag fall onto the deck in his backyard; he’d throw it in the bins in the morning. 

He washed up in the bathroom and changed into pajamas, finally, planning to try to sleep in his own bed. Just as he was getting under his blankets – which smelled only like laundry detergent, since no one ever slept in them – the bedroom door opened. 

Richard walked in. From the light in the hallway, Jim could see that Richard’s eyes were red and glistening; he was sniffling, softly, and hugging his favorite stuffed animal, a well-worn, pale pink Snagglepuss, close to his chest. 

Immediately, Jim sat up. 

“Why are you crying?” he asked. 

Mummy stepped into the room. 

“Go back to sleep, Jim,” she said, mistaking his intense, fraternal concern for simple curiosity. 

“Why did Richard come home early?” he asked. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re both going to sleep now,” she said sternly. “It’s far too late for you to be up.” 

She scooped Richard up and placed him on the bed; the affectionate gesture was like a mockery of when she’d wrestled Jim to his bed earlier. After giving them both a kiss on the head – Jim tried to dodge his – she left the room. Jim immediately left his bed in favor of Richard’s and, once he was under Richard’s duvet, Richard wrapped his arms tight around Jim and began to cry. 

Jim hugged his brother back. Every mean feeling he’d held toward his brother for the past several hours had vaporized the moment he’d seen Richard walk through the bedroom door. 

“They weren’t nice to you, were they?” Jim whispered. Richard shook his head into Jim’s chest. 

Jim held him close, mainly so that Richard couldn’t pull away and see the uncontrollable grin that was forming on Jim’s lips. 

When he spoke, though, his voice was thick with concern: “Did they tease you?” 

Richard sobbed. “H-how c-can y-y-ou s-sssss-st-sss – ” 

The ‘st’ sound was nearly impossible for him to make, especially when he was upset, and his stuttering only made him cry harder. Jim rubbed his back, savoring in the role reversal, in the feeling of being needed. 

“How can I stand you?” Jim asked. He didn’t usually finish Richard’s sentences for him; he could sense that Richard didn’t like it. Right now, however, Richard was choking on tears too much to talk. 

Richard nodded weakly into Jim’s chest. 

“Because I love you,” Jim says. “I love you so much, Richard. More than Mummy. More than Da. More than any other boy in our school, in Ireland, in the world. I love you.” 

“I ss-sss-ound st-st-stupid,” Richard said. 

Jim’s anger flared at that. 

“You’re not,” he said harshly. “I’ve read studies on it. Stuttering doesn’t affect intelligence. Anyone who thinks it does is an idiot. Stop crying, Richard. You’re not dumb. I would hate you if you were.” 

“I kn-know I’m n-not,” Richard whispered, miserably. “I onnnly ss-s-ou-ound st-stupid.” 

“I love the way you sound,” Jim said. In truth, he hoped Richard never grew out of his stuttering. The older he got the more unlikely it became, and the older he got the more other children bullied him for it. And the more he was bullied, the more he needed Jim. 

“Whose house did you sleepover?” Jim asked, in case the information should ever be important. 

“Carl,” Richard said. “Carl Powers.” 

Jim snorted. “Carl’s the stupid one, Richie. He didn’t even know who Charles Babbage was when I mentioned him in class.” 

“I d-don’t kn-o-ow who Ch-ch-Charles Babbbbage is,” Richard said, horrified, as if knowing who Charles Babbage was served as the ultimate determinant of intelligence. 

“I bet Carl’s never read Shakespeare, either,” Jim said. Richard loved Shakespeare more than anything, even though Jim thought the stories were silly. 

Richard’s smile was soft and heartbreaking. 

“True,” he said. This seemed to mollify him. He closed his eyes, letting Jim pet his hair, and soon enough the boys were asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby diagnose my Jim Moriarty with “general crazies.” I’ve basically just applied random symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder and Antisocial Personality Disorder to him, while ignoring other symptoms and ultimately not bothering to make anything psychologically convincing. I’m not aiming for realism.
> 
> Also, I promise to stop ending chapters with characters falling asleep. Thank you for reading? (If anyone is reading this.)


	6. After Practice: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a gangbang. Sorry for typos.
> 
>  
> 
> (Also: In case anyone is as rugby-clueless as I am, there are 15 players on a rugby team. **15!** )

The sunlight filled the room with an unwelcomed brightness, casting golden rectangles on the slanted planes of Sebastian’s ceiling. Birdsong pecked easily through the walls and windows, forcing him awake, but he would have been awake regardless. It was impossible to sleep after – after –  


This was the fourth time. The fourth time, and the same dream.

Despite the immense disgust that filled him, like thick phlegm in his throat and chest, when he awoke he found his hand down his pants, his cock erect and throbbing. He’d have to wank off before starting the day. There was no other way he could go on, and yet he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He needed to push away every dream-image that still lingered in his head, but how? He tried picturing other things. Women. Ann. Ann’s breasts, from the angle he’d seen them from on Thursday night. This immediately brought to mind the recollection of Severin, his hungry mouth sucking at her pink skin. He shook his head, trying to remember different women, girls, past conquests. Every girl he’d ever picked up at an away rugby game. But the only thing he remembered with clarity about any of those conquests was the way Severin had sweet-talked them. Even pulling out the magazines from under his bed wouldn’t work, for that would remind him of who’d last been poring over them. Sickened, Sebastian realized that he didn’t have a single memory, or even a single fantasy, that was not, at its core, related to his brother.

He closed his eyes, sighing, and proceeded to clear his mind of every thought, focusing only on the heat down below, on his rough, callused fingers. Inevitably even his own flesh reminded him of his brother’s flesh, and every few seconds some fragmented thought of Severin would invade his head. First it was the sound of Severin’s laughter, then his bright, alert eyes… His arms corded with hard muscle, or the way he was always growing too big for his uniforms, forever threatening to pop off the buttons of his shirts with the broadness of his shoulders and chest. Then there was the heat of him, the heat of their collisions, the hard resistance Sebastian met when he tackled Severin in rugby… His grunts and curses during a game, or during four nights ago, when they’d – 

_Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me. Hurt me, brother…_

Sebastian came with a gasp, lurching up before collapsing back onto his pillow. He lay panting, eyes wide. His hand was hot and sticky. Severin’s voice was fresh in his head, as if no time had passed since four evenings ago and this morning. 

The bedroom still smelled slightly sour from when he’d been sick, and the alarm clock told him it was ten after five. 

* * * * 

“Severin? Severin, mate. It’s time to wake up.” A hand was rubbing his back, and it felt so good that Severin pretended to be asleep for just a few seconds longer than necessary. Eventually he groaned, announcing his return to consciousness, and turned over. 

Dalmar, the rugby team’s lock player, was taking up most of the bed. Not that Severin could complain – it was, after all, Dalmar’s bed. 

“I don’t want to get up,” Severin groaned. “Let’s stay in bed…” He leaned forward, linking his arms around Dalmar’s neck. He went to kiss Dalmar, but Dalmar dodged away. 

“What have I told you? No kissing until you brush your teeth, mate.” Dalmar’s smile was gentle, though, and even as he spoke he gave Severin a peck on the lips. “You want to sleep in my dorm, you play by my rules.” 

“And you’ll follow my rules on the field,” Severin teased. He moved down the bed, giving kisses to Dalmar’s chest instead. Dalmar had the darkest skin Severin had ever seen, and his torso was smooth, a hard, developed pack serving as the only interruption of that smoothness. That, and the brown nipples Severin was currently kissing. He slid one between his teeth, nibbling gently, before Dalmar pushed his head away. 

“Don’t get me wound up,” Dalmar warned. Severin complied, slipping off him. Although he’d been spending the past four nights in Dalmar’s room, he’d made it clear he wasn’t up for fucking: Sebastian had left him far too sore, so that every bend and squat of his body made him ache, and so far the only attention that Dalmar had been allowed to pay Severin’s tender hole had been the regular application of soothing ointments. 

They eventually rose, both heading to Dalmar’s bathroom. Once they were in the shower together, Dalmar squirted a glob of shampoo onto his palm and said, “So?” 

“So, what?” Severin asked, tilting his head back slightly as Dalmar began to run his soapy fingers through it, washing his hair. 

“Are you going to talk to your brother today, mate?” 

“What makes you think I’m not talking to him?” Severin asked, but he was shit liar, and he knew it. Even as he spoke, his voice wavered slightly, and he immediately swallowed. Dalmar was kind enough not to point this out, although he must have noticed. Instead he said simply, “You haven’t been to your own room in four days, and I can’t think of who else you’d be avoiding. What happened?” 

Sebastian had started it. When Severin had searched for him in the Dining Hall the morning after their night together, Sebastian never showed. In the classes they shared, the desk beside Severin was now left empty, as Sebastian had repositioned himself to the other side of the room. Sebastian wasn’t conspicuous about it; in fact, he hadn’t so much as glanced at Severin once since Thursday night. It was as if he’d forgotten he had a brother. The Moran twins were usually inseparable, though, so their peers had doubtlessly started speculating. Severin was sure that Dalmar wasn’t the only one to notice. 

“I, um…” Severin cleared his throat. He thought back to Thursday night. Although he didn’t realize it, it appeared that his memories had become somewhat distorted in response to Sebastian’s silent treatment. He felt as if he had pressured his brother into something his brother had had no interest in. Severin felt perverted, unclean, not by what they’d done, but by the way Sebastian clearly hadn’t enjoyed it. He felt guilty. “I kinda fucked things up.” 

Dalmar and Severin rarely discussed Sebastian. Severin knew nothing about it, but Dalmar was jealous of Sebastian. Dalmar loved Severin. He’d been Severin’s first – everything. First friend at Eton, first rival in rugby, first boy to bring him to bed. But even all of that couldn’t compare to the bond Severin had with his brother. Although he’d never suggest it, Dalmar sometimes suspected that their bond transcended the strictly fraternal. 

Dalmar let his hands rest on the back of Severin’s neck, stroking lightly. Severin had deep circles under his eyes, he saw, and he’d barely eaten a thing in days. The usual brightness of his eyes had flattened, the blue turning to a watery gray. 

Or maybe that was just the lighting. 

“I’m sure things will be fine,” Dalmar said, pulling away. “We’ve got our first practice of the week after classes. If two blokes can’t settle things over rugby, then nothing will help.” 

* * * * 

It was a hell of a day for rugby practice. Severin had had to bully the boys onto the field, and even now he was wondering if they would be able to get much done. Rain was pouring, fast and thick, absolutely drenching the boys. And the field, Severin thought, had turned into a quagmire. After a couple of tackles alone, most of the team was slicked with mud in the most intrusive places. Severin could feel it in the crack of his arse, under his foreskin, in his fucking ears. Just like the rest of the boys, he wanted nothing more than a hot shower – or a couple of hot showers, considering how dirty he was. 

Somewhere near the beginning of practice, the coach had rather conspicuously gone back inside to his office, leaving Severin completely in charge. Although he could barely see his teammates through the gray sheets of rain, he forced himself to look up, trying to identify each player by their general stature rather than their features. 

“Oi! Lane!” he called. “Get back in the game!” 

Lane, a long-haired forward, had been dawdling on the sidelines, apparently thinking that the rain was something only other boys had to suffer through. He jumped at Severin’s command though, and was quickly playing again. 

Severin had only been made captain this season. He was not necessarily the best player on the team – Dalmar and Sebastian were just as good – but he was the best for the position. Dalmar hadn’t wanted it; he said he mostly played for fun, to have something to share with Severin. And the coach would have had to have been a complete idiot to make Sebastian captain. It was purely due to his skills as a player that he was still allowed on the field at all. It seemed that not two games could go by without Sebastian getting in a fight, either with a rival player or one of his own teammates. While Sebastian's temper was out of control, Severin was much more coolheaded. 

The boys were playing poorly today. All of them were distracted by the weather. Severin gave the least enthused players some nudges, always thinking about what each individual player needed. Lane, for instance, had needed a shout. Jamie required brief eye contact, while any verbalization would have made him subversive. Dalmar seemed to know what Severin wanted intuitively, and played off of that. And for Sebastian– 

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” 

– more severe articulation had to be implemented. 

Sebastian, from across the field, had just given Oliver a brutal tackle. Instead of wrapping his arms around Oliver’s core, he’d grabbed him by the throat, using his weight to make Oliver topple to the ground. Severin was down the field in seconds. 

He quickly realized that Sebastian was no longer playing the game. Firstly, Oliver didn’t even have the ball – the ball had just been passed to Georg, who was now running in their direction, oblivious to what was going on. Secondly, Sebastian was still on top of Oliver, raising his arm as if about to land a blow. 

“Pervert! You fucking queer!” Sebastian was cursing. 

Severin leaped forward, pulling Sebastian back. He struggled, but was distracted enough for Oliver to wiggle out from under him. 

“Oliver needs to get kicked off the team!” Sebastian shouted. 

“What’s happening?” Severin asked, refusing to let go even as Sebastian continued struggling. 

“He said he caught me looking at his jockstrap,” Oliver said. Oliver's eyes were wide; he was frightened, more easily intimidated by Sebastian than any of the other boys would have been. It hadn't seemed to dawn on Oliver to fight back.

“Yeah? And so what?” Severin asked. Anything involving bending over, especially in scrums or tackles, could result in another player getting a quick glimpse of the leg tapes of one’s jockstrap. Dalmar had once told Severin that that brief revelation, of glimpsing what another player had beneath his shorts, was part of what kept him playing. Both found it unduly erotic, although Severin imagined the rest of the team couldn't care less. 

“I guess _you_ wouldn’t care,” Sebastian accused. He yanked away, forcing Severin’s grip off of him, and turned. He was muttering, almost as if he’d lost it, and Severin could catch only: “ – entire team – homo – fucking – ” 

Out of nowhere, the ball soared through the air in their direction. Oliver, Sebastian, and Severin saw it at the same time, necks craned upwards, although Severin was the quickest to react. He jumped up, catching it in his arms, and hoped that if he started playing then Oliver and Sebastian would follow suit, forgetting the whole incident. 

Instead, Sebastian ran after him, and Severin hadn’t gotten far before Sebastian caught up. He grabbed Severin by the waist and brought him lurching facedown, not in a tackle but in an attack. With one hand, he grabbed Severin’s hair and shoved his face into the mud. With the other hand, he began to slap Severin’s arse, not in a typical gesture of camaraderie, but in one of real rage, of brute force and painful intentions. 

“What – kind – of – captain – doesn’t – discipline – his – teammates?” Sebastian said, one word for each spank. 

“Oi, mate! Get off your brother!” that was Lane. A few other boys were coming now, too, finally realizing that Sebastian had stopped playing. Someone pulled Sebastian off of Severin, and Severin tried to rise. Lane was beside him, squatting down, and Severin expected him to put out his hand, to help Severin up. 

Instead, though, following in Sebastian’s lead, he reached out and gave Severin a forceful slap on the arse. The boys around them gaped, although Severin could distinctly hear Dalmar laughing, and then clapping. A couple of boys then exchanged nervous chuckles, but Severin couldn’t see who did so, as his vision was blurred by mud, perspiration, and the pouring rain. He tried rubbing his eyes clear, but his fingers were dirtied with mud. He reached down, tucking his chin against his neck, and pulled his shirt up, to wipe his eyes clean with his collar. His vision had just returned when, suddenly, Lane was standing over his head. 

“What’s that, Sev? Trying to take your jersey off for us? Let me help,” he said. Seeing Lane about to dive at his sleeves, Severin tried crossing his arms. Two other boys – Georg and Dalmar – were on him in an instant, holding his arms straight out as Lane pulled at his jersey. He writhed and struggled, but they were the three biggest boys on the team, and he hadn’t a chance against all three of them. Soon enough, he could feel the cold, slimy mud rub slick across his chest, and his bare back was exposed to the icy raindrops, landing against his skin like ceaseless darts against a dartboard. 

He looked up and saw that the entire rugby team was now gathering around him, except for Sebastian, who seemed to have disappeared. The game had been forgotten, and for a moment no one moved. Everything seemed to rest in the hands of Lane, Georg, and Dalmar. 

Lane grinned and folded Severin’s jersey over his shoulder. _“Very_ nice shoulders, Sev. But I’m sure you want us to see the rest of you, too. Stand up.” 

Severin could have said, “Fuck off, Lane.” He could have demanded back his jersey, told the boys off for stopping the game, gone to get the coach. He could have risen and punched Lane squarely in the face. 

Instead, he looked slowly up at Lane, not as if he was considering anything but as if he had already decided, and he was just bracing himself for what was to come. He and Lane gazed at one another, brown eyes on blue, and Severin felt nothing but utter trust. 

He stood up. 


	7. After Practice: Part Two

His entire front was covered in mud, and as he stood his shorts began to slide down his legs. He didn't pull them up. The rain was wetting his arse, water sliding down his crack. Humiliatingly, he felt himself getting hard as the boys eyed him. His erection strained against the fabric of his jockstrap, positioned upwards and not quite breaching the boundary of his elastic waistband. 

“Well,” Lane said. “Look how dirty you’ve gotten your uniform. You’d think a captain would have more respect for a rugby uniform.” 

He took a step forward, put out his hand, and said, “Shorts off. No use wearing them if they’re all dirty anyway.” 

Severin lifted one foot at a time, leaning down to slip the shorts past his ankles. Nearly nothing, now, was concealed from his teammates. 

Lane eyed him shamelessly. He complimented, “Nice. Very nice. But we wouldn’t expect anything else from our good captain, would we, boys?” 

The boys seemed startled at being called on to respond. They looked around nervously, but once it was made apparent that the coach wasn’t there, and Severin wasn’t expressing any aversion, some agreed. Lane stepped forward and touched Severin’s arms, squeezing his biceps. The muscles beneath Severin’s skin didn’t yield under his pressure, and he rubbed his hands up and down Severin’s arms several times before seeming satisfied. 

“Strong,” he announced, and he moved on to Severin’s chest, carelessly wiping most of the mud away with Severin’s shorts. He walked his fingers up Severin’s thin trail of light hair, a delicate dusting that led beneath his waistband, before tracing the defined contours of Severin’s abdominal muscles. He slid his hands over where the muscles rose and fell, slowly working up, rubbing his entire palm over Severin’s chest. He squeezed each of Severin’s nipples once – hard – and smirked when Severin gasped, his knees momentarily shaky. 

“Hard abs,” he told the team. He stroked Severin’s collarbone, which jutted out, casting the slightest shadows over his fair skin. Then he shoved his fingers inside Severin’s mouth. 

Severin flinched, but remained otherwise still, as Lane pulled at his upper lip, then his lower lip, scrutinizing. 

“Straight teeth. Healthy gums,” he said, and Severin realized what he was doing: he was inspecting him before the team, like he was a piece of livestock they weren’t yet sure they wanted to purchase. Severin felt his authority as their captain slipping from him, into Lane’s hands. 

Lane leaned down, continuing to Severin’s legs, feeling the hardness of his calves, squeezing into his thighs and feeling minimal fat, all muscle. Then, daringly, he gave Severin two sharp strokes to the cock, through the thin material of the jockstrap. An uncontrolled moan escaped Severin’s lips. From his peripheral vision, he saw Dalmar split into a grin. 

Then Lane stood again, pacing behind him, and he felt Lane squeeze his arse, grabbing the soft flesh and kneading it like dough. He repeated the process on Severin’s other cheek and, as if to remind Severin of just how exposed he was, he ran a finger down his crack. 

“Firm,” Lane decided. He added, “His arse is a nice shade of pink, too, don’t you think?” 

Some of the other boys yelled out in agreement, but Dalmar countered, “Ought to be red, I’d say. Pink is just a tad too girly for our Sev.” 

“Too true,” Lane agreed and, without hesitation, he gave Severin a swat on the arse. Severin yelled, stumbling forward instinctively to get out of Lane’s grasp, but Dalmar was quickly there, securing Severin’s arms, keeping him in place. The team watched with fascination as Lane delivered five more blows to each cheek, just enough to darken the pink a shade, and then he stepped back. Dalmar followed, releasing Severin. 

Lane said, as if he had just realized something that was of great concern, “We shouldn’t stay in the rain this long. We might catch cold.” 

He began to walk back in the direction of the locker room. Dalmar followed, and one by one the boys all started to leave. Severin watched, slightly dazed, feeling surprisingly disappointed that the fun had stopped just when it was beginning to feel truly good. 

“I need my uniform back,” he called to Lane, thinking that Lane had forgotten the light weight of it over his shoulders. 

Lane turned back, showing that he had heard, and snorted. He continued walking, and Dalmar said something to him. The two became caught up in conversation as if Severin, standing near-naked in the pouring rain, on the open field, not so far from where other Eton students were walking, had been forgotten. 

The rain was slowing, making it easier to see. And rather than being protected by the circle they had formed around him moments ago, he was left standing on his own, free to be spotted by anyone who happened to look his way. His jockstrap was soaking wet from the rain by now, dark and clinging even tighter to his skin. And his bare arse blazed a delicious apple red, contrasting against the bleak gray-green landscape of Eton, begging for attention from any random passersby like a cape waved in front of a bull. He stood in his spot for a while, until the rest of the team was some meters away, and he finally accepted that Lane wasn’t going to return his uniform. 

He’d have to walk back to the locker room, basically naked, and hope no one saw him. 

Red-faced and red-arsed, he ran to catch up with the team. When he reached them, Lane turned around. 

“Look who decided to join us,” he said. “I’m glad you did, Sevvy. It’s not good for the morale of the team when the captain doesn’t lead them.” 

“Too true, Lane.” This was Koji who spoke, a Japanese English boy who had the most chiseled cheekbones Severin had ever seen. “You ought to go ahead of us, captain.” 

He gestured for Severin to step in front of him. Severin wanted to be in the middle of the group, hidden as much as possible by his players, but all of the boys, once they understood what was happening, pushed him forward. He was soon not part of the group but just in front of it. He threatened to stop, to meander into the middle, until he felt a sting on his bare arse. 

Lane had whipped Severin’s jersey at him, like he was a horse that needed prodding. Severin shuffled forward, staring at the steel locker room door in the distance like it was his safe haven. As he continued his walk of shame, the other boys encouraged him, tapping and spanking his bottom, pushing him so that he stumbled, threatening to fall into the mud. They laughed, getting rowdier and rowdier as they approached the locker room. When he finally reached the door, he turned the handle, pressing against it. He took a deep sigh of relief as it opened and – 

\- was grabbed by his waist. He toppled from the force of another boy’s – Lane’s – weight, and Lane hooked an arm around his neck and pulled in. He choked, stumbling, and his eyes smarted with tears. Meanwhile, the rest of the team had piled in. Someone locked the door behind them, and, just as Severin’s face was turning a solid red from asphyxiation, he was released. 

Only to be thrown forward before he could get his grounding. 

A second boy caught him, but threw him quick enough. He was falling back, his feet giving out beneath him. His arms were trying to find something to hold on to, trying to get his balance back, but soon enough a third boy held him. He felt the boy’s hands flat against his back, a slight vibration passing from those hands to his spine as the boy chuckled. 

“Pass the rugby ball,” the boy said, and threw. 

And suddenly he was being tossed around the locker room, strong, large hands catching him, turning him around, pushing him over, positioning him however they pleased, before slapping his bare arse. Some slaps were hard and brutal, others quick and sharp, but all of them left him howling and aching hard. He was being moved from one boy to the next with such speed, with so little order, that he had absolutely no control over who was touching him or how. He tried to catch everyone’s faces, to at least be aware of the general sequence – first Lane, then Koji, then Jamie – but everything was too fast, too loud, and he could only process a blur of superior grins and taunting laughter. He surrendered himself to the heat of bodies around him, trusting that, spank him though they may, none of his teammates would let him fall on the hard tiled floor. They kept him supported, treating him exactly like they would a rugby ball, as if they were doing a routine passing drill and Severin was their equipment. 

Someone gave him a powerful shove, and he stumbled forward. Two arms grabbed his core and pulled him in, as if preparing a tackle, and he was thrown down. He just barely had time to put out his arms and catch himself, lowering himself slowly onto the floor. A muddied foot pressed against his back, the studs of someone’s rugby shoes piercing his skin. 

“How do you like this, captain?” It was Dalmar with his foot on Severin’s back. Severin could imagine Dalmar’s dark, well-muscled calve unyielding between his own shoulder blades. 

“I think,” Severin said, and his voice took on the authoritative tone of a rugby captain, “that you are all pathetically soft, slow, and merciful. If you want to play the game, play _hard.”_

A moment passed, and then Dalmar broke out into laughter. 

“See, boys? Don’t go easy on Sev here. It’s an insult to him. You’re all novices to this, of course, but I’m not,” Dalmar said. “Let me teach you how to discipline a rugby captain.” 

He leaned down, taking his shoe off Severin’s back, and grabbed Severin by the neck. Severin was hauled up to his knees, then yanked to his feet. He was panting, and looked at the faces staring back at him. Some, like Lane and Jamie, looked positively thrilled, while others looked more hesitant. He noted with a sense of unease that he couldn’t see Sebastian anywhere. 

“On my lap, Moran,” Dalmar said. Dalmar was sitting on one of the benches, still fully clothed. Dalmar and Severin had played precisely this game in this locker room, after practice, plenty of times, but never when the team was still there. With a growing flicker of excitement, Severin obediently crawled onto the bench, positioning his arse over Dalmar’s lap. His arms hung off the end of the bench, his fingertips grazing the tiled floor. Dalmar made him wait in nervous anticipation for many long seconds. Then – 

“HOLY – !” Severin cried out. Dalmar’s hand cracked down like a whip, fiery and stinging. Then it continued, rapid, ceaseless, and for every slap that landed against Severin’s already-tender skin, Severin released half a dozen curses. 

“The coach is going to hear him!” Lane complained. 

“Then make him shut the hell up,” Dalmar said. Severin, meanwhile, was reduced to an uncontrolled mix of moans, cries, pleas, curses, and sobs. He couldn’t decide if it felt good or bad – it was, for now, only overwhelmingly painful – but his cock hadn’t flagged. He hadn’t heard Lane and Dalmar speaking, though, and so he wasn’t prepared when Lane abruptly shoved his cock between Severin’s lips. 

Severin choked at first. Lane had shoved in to the hilt, down Severin’s throat, and two hands pulled at Severin’s hair. Lane’s firm grip prevented Severin from pulling back, and Lane simply watched for a moment, as Severin adjusted to the feeling of a thick cock down his throat. Eventually his gags subsided. 

After a minute or so, Dalmar’s slaps had finally slowed a bit. It reached a rhythm, and there was only the occasional crack of his spanking amidst the ceaseless sound of Severin moaning on Lane’s cock. 

“Gotta keep you quiet, Sev,” Dalmar said, patting his cheeks. It seemed he was finished with the spanking – which was good, as Severin’s arse was now blooming bruises, black and blue. “There’s a good boy.” 

Severin could feel Dalmar’s package pressing against him before Dalmar slipped out from under him. He was left feeling momentarily lonely, with the heat of Dalmar’s body gone. Then Lane pulled out just slightly, giving Severin some room to move. Taking the hint, Severin began to suck. He became distracted and absorbed, his tongue flicking around Lane’s head as he tasted a salty stream of precome. 

Severin looked up at Lane, and he was pleased to see that Lane was staring down at him, jaw dropped. On his face was not only pleasure, but surprise at the intensity of his pleasure, and Severin realized something. Dalmar saw it, too. 

“You’ve never had another bloke suck your dick before, have you, Lane?” he asked. The boys around them snickered. 

“Fucking – ” Lane gasped, struggling to form words. “It’s fucking…so good…” 

His nails dug into Severin’s scalp, and then he was coming, his hips jutting forward, the tip of his cock setting off Severin’s gag reflex again. He pulled out just as the last drops of come were dribbling from his cock, and watched as they splattered sloppily on Severin’s bottom lip and chin. His eyes were slits; he was sated with pleasure and stepped back, speechless. 

Severin was swallowing happily at the come that had squirted into his mouth, feeling it coating his tongue, lavishing in his reward. Dalmar was standing behind him, and he must have seen how brutally Lane had been treating Severin’s scalp, because he was now petting Severin’s head softly. Severin felt like a particularly well-behaved dog, and he was just starting to lick what come he could reach off his lips, entirely pleased with himself, when the locker room door opened. 

All the boys turned at once, terrified of seeing the coach walk in. 

At first Severin couldn’t see who it was – too many bodies were blocking the view of the door. But the boys were all hastily getting out of the way, eyeing whoever had entered with the sort of fear and respect that made Severin certain the coach was seconds away from catching him. 

It was Sebastian. He was soaked with rainwater, drenched in mud, and carrying a trash bag filled with garbage. 

His eyes scanned the room, and he saw some of the boys with their hands still down their pants, frozen on their cocks. He looked at Lane, who was leaning against the lockers in a post-coital haze. Finally he saw Severin, with the lower half of his face covered in come, and his arse painted with blue handprints. 

He looked away. As if he had registered that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, he dropped the trash bag in the trashcan in the corner. He said, “You all forgot. The coach asked us to pick up around the bleachers today, remember?” 

Then, still unperturbed, he wiped his hands on his shorts and disappeared around the corner. Seconds passed and the sound of one of the showerheads could be heard. 

No one moved for a moment – all of the boys trying to gauge what had just happened, even Severin, who could usually read his brother well. Sebastian’s eyes had been devoid of all emotion. 

It was Dalmar who spoke first. He said, “I think we’ve been a bit too mean to Severin’s arse today, boys. Who thinks we should show it a little kindness before we take our showers?” 

Severin hadn’t seen Dalmar reach into his rugby bag, but he must have, because he suddenly felt Dalmar’s hand spread his arse cheeks wide, exposing his puckered, pink hole, and a cold glob of lube was spread over it. In the time that Severin had known Dalmar, he’d learned that Dalmar was never without lube. Right now it was making Severin shiver, both from the coldness and the way it sent the nerves at the entrance of his hole absolutely singing. 

Before long, Dalmar had pushed his pinky into Severin’s hole, and Severin was squirming again. 

“P-please,” he said. “More. Oh, more…” 

“Getting a little loud again, Sev,” Dalmar said. “If someone could just…” 

Taking the point, another boy stepped up to Severin’s head. This time it was Georg. Georg was a forward on the team, and well-suited for it: he was, without a doubt, the heftiest boy on the team. He was meaty and masculine, and already Severin could smell the sour odor of sweat emanating from his skin. Severin reached out to pulled down his shorts, eager to get a grip of Georg’s thick, hairy thighs, but Georg had something else in mind. Keeping his shorts securely on, he stepped forward and grabbed the top of Severin’s head. He squatted down, his hefty form towering over Severin, and pulled his sticky, wet shirt away from his body. He shoved Severin’s head forward, smothering him in the tent of the material. The shirt was soaked in sweat and mud, and Severin was suddenly wrapped tightly under it, entirely cloaked and surrounded by Georg’s musty, hairy belly. His cock was pressing through his shorts against Severin’s chest, and Severin was trapped. 

It was heaven. 

Severin snuffled and sniffed like a pig in search of truffles. He lapped at the layer of sweat that coated Georg’s belly. Stomach hairs tickled up his nose, and Georg’s heavy odor was inescapable. He had a definite gut on him, but beneath it were slabs of powerful muscle. Severin’s tongue explored the rim of his belly button, licking out the sweat and animal taste of him. Meanwhile, Dalmar was steadily fingering his hole, three fingers comfortably inside him, and as he was adding a fourth Georg lifted his shirt. 

Cool air flowed in, and Severin felt like he was coming up from underwater. The taste of Georg lingered in his mouth, heady, deliciously intoxicating. Severin was given a moment to get his breath back, his head swimming in a vat of unadulterated lust. 

Dalmar had fingered Severin far too many times not to be acquainted with his body, and as soon as all four fingers were inside him he was reaching, expertly, for that special spot deep within him. When he hit it, Severin gasped. 

“Oh – _shit!”_ He was suddenly clawing out, grabbing onto Georg’s thighs, reaching blindly to yank down his shorts, eager to get a cock-gag in his mouth before he really started screaming. 

Georg’s cock, like the rest of him, was huge and thick. It stretched the ring of Severin’s lips, and had a distinctly fishy scent. Georg rutted ruthlessly from the start, grunting as Severin choked. Severin was now harder than ever, his erection pressing painfully against his jockstrap and the hard bench beneath him. He was beginning to wonder if he could come with his cock trapped as it was, and it seemed increasingly likely, but Dalmar abruptly pulled out. His hole was left stretched and empty, neglected as Georg continued to pound against his throat. 

Severin was trapped, his face held by Georg’s two hands, as large as shovels, and his face pressed into Georg’s pubic hairs. Georg’s cock felt grainy and unwashed in his mouth, and Severin was doing his best to clean it off, swirling his tongue around it even as Georg choked him. 

Then Georg pulled out, taking his cock in his own hand and masturbating over Severin’s face. Severin closed his mouth, waiting to receive Georg’s load. Georg had his cock aimed at Severin’s nose, and Severin was looking forward to having Georg’s nasty, sour scent clogging his sinuses all day, but then Georg redirected. 

Just as he came, he held his cock higher up, and ropes of spunk were released right into Severin’s eyes. Severin tried jolting back, but one firm hand was still keeping his head in place. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinded as rope after rope of come stained his face. 

“You fucking bastard,” he coughed, come getting into his mouth when he opened it. Georg’s load was huge, soaking almost his entire face in thick, sticky white. When Georg was finally finished, every last drop having been squeezed from his oversized cock, Severin said, “Wipe my fucking eyes off, you cunt!” 

Georg cracked up. 

“I don’t think you should, Georg,” Lane advised. “He looks kind of pretty like this.” 

“Not a chance, whore,” Georg said. 

Everything felt different now that Severin couldn’t see. It was like all of his other senses were piqued, and he heard every shuffle of feet, every crude laugh, every taunt thrown at him. 

“Do you want your hole fucked, Severin?” Dalmar asked. His pinky teased at Severin’s entrance. “I think our accommodating captain deserves some recompense from us, don’t you, team?” 

Severin nodded his head eagerly, hoping Dalmar could see it. A good fuck was exactly what he needed right now. 

“Alright, stand up,” Dalmar said. “Can’t fuck both your ends with you on the bench.” 

Severin almost panicked for a moment, feeling far too disoriented, blinded as he was, to stand, but Dalmar’s hand was suddenly in his. He guided Severin up and onto the ground, and then directed Severin on his back, letting Severin’s head rest on a towel instead of the hard floor. Severin’s knees were positioned in the air, his legs spread and his hole exposed. The tip of his cock was poking out of his jockstrap now, but his shaft and balls were still annoyingly stifled. 

“I’m going to fuck you last, Sev,” Dalmar announced. “So besides me, whose cock do you want in you most?” 

Severin paused, taken aback. He could hear the boys laughing at him. To admit to wanting a fuck was one thing – to announce who, specifically, he wanted most, was another. 

Embarrassed but eager, he decided it’d be best to go with the truth. If he was going to be humiliated in front of his teammates, he might as well get something out of it. Therefore, he said the name of the boy who had been featured in plenty of his past wanking fantasies – tall and lean, almost slim but not quite girlish, with the most masterfully-sculpted face he’d ever known. 

“Koji,” he admitted. The boys laughed, of course, but he didn’t care, because soon enough he could feel someone’s long fingers sliding down the backs of his thighs, and he was almost certain it was Koji. His breath was held in anticipation, and before long he felt the tip of a cock at his entrance. He wished he could see Koji, although the sensations were that much stronger for not being able to. None of this much mattered, however, as seconds later someone loomed over him, casting a shadow behind his eyelids. He wasn’t sure who it was, but a cock was pressed against his lips. He took it in just as Koji began to press inside of him. Koji’s cock was slick with lube, not nearly as thick as Georg’s, but long and straight. It was a good thing that an anonymous cock was occupying his mouth, because as Koji split him open he released a long, pleasured moan. 

Pretty soon he was being fucked on both ends, Koji’s thrusts making Severin’s cock rub against his jockstrap. He reached down for his cock, needing stimulation, but someone’s hands grabbed at his wrists. They pulled his arms up over his head. He yanked, testing their strength, but they didn’t budge. He struggled for a moment, as if to get out of the other boy’s grip, but the restraint actually made him feel hotter. 

The anonymous cock pulled out of his mouth, and the third load of the day was splattered across his face. He opened wide, both to swallow any come that made it into his mouth-hole and to invite the next cock to begin. Soon enough, a fourth one was in him, this boy’s hairy thighs trapping either side of Severin’s face. He was moaning around the cock as his suckled, unable to help himself. Koji was fucking him gently, not nearly enough to give Severin any kind of relief. The fourth cock was letting him suck properly, though, and Severin slid his tongue into the boy’s piss slit, lathering the tip of the cock’s head in saliva and precome. The boy grunted above him, and almost as soon as Severin took him entirely into his mouth he was coming. They all pulled out when they came, making sure their loads landed on Severin’s face. Severin was sure he looked like an absolute slut. Lane’s first load was drying, making his chin itchy, but the hands restraining his wrists stopped him from itching. 

“OH SHIT. KOJI, PLEASE. PLEASE, MORE – ” He hadn’t even realized he’d been begging like a desperate cockslut until his mouth was momentarily cock-free. Soon enough he had another one gagging him, though, and was silenced once more. The boys could only hope none of Severin’s quick seconds of begging had made it through the walls to the coach’s office. 

Koji didn’t give him more, though, insisting on keeping his unsatisfying pace until finally he pulled out, stepping up to Severin’s face to masturbate over him. Severin was getting absolutely coated in come, load after load. As soon as his hole was abandoned, though, he began squirming, desperate without even the little stimulation Koji had been giving him. 

Another cock was shoved up his arse soon enough, and this one had far more mercy. Whoever he was, he fucked hard, making Severin cry out so loud that the boy above him had no choice but to gag Severin to his cock’s hilt. The boy at his arse even began to touch Severin’s cock, stroking his exposed tip, before someone smacked his hand away. 

“Oliver, stop it! He doesn’t get to come until we’re done.” 

Severin was rutting against air, tears running down his face – not that anyone could see them, spoiling him as they were on their come. He accepted any cocks that came to him willingly, and during the rare moments when someone wasn’t mouth-fucking him, he would lick around his lips to lap up whatever come his tongue could reach. 

Finally, it seemed, every boy except Dalmar and the boy holding his wrists had had their fair share. Severin wondered who it was. Severin liked the restraint, felt it anchoring him to reality even as his unfulfilled pleasure threatened to push him into incoherence. 

Everything was still for a moment as Dalmar came to him, and, cock-free, Severin began babbling. 

“Dalmar, Dalmar, please, please, I’ll do anything – oh, god, fuck me – please fuck me, Dalmar, Dalmar…” 

“Calm down,” Dalmar said. He leaned down, and Severin felt him removing Severin’s jockstrap. It was coated in sweat and precome by this time. The precome had drooled from Severin’s exposed tip down to the outside of the cloth. The material stuck to his skin, but Dalmar peeled it away, revealing a rod stiff prick, reddened and neglected, and two heavy, swollen balls. 

“You want my cock?” Dalmar asked. 

“Oh, yes. Yes, please! Please, Dalmar, please! I can’t – I can’t – ” 

“Shut up,” Dalmar said. “And how about Jamie’s? You want Jamie’s cock in your mouth while I fuck you, or you want Jamie up your arse, then me?” 

So it’d been Jamie who’d been holding his arms back. He could picture Jamie’s face: he was handsome-featured, with large, deceptively innocent-looking brown eyes, a long, thin nose, and curly brown hair. 

“Mouth,” Severin gasped. “Please, Jamie. Please...” 

“Well, you heard him, James. You wanna fuck his mouth?” Dalmar asked. 

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for,” Jamie breathed. With a final, unexpectedly tender squeeze to Severin’s wrists, he released them. Severin brought his arms down, sore in his shoulder joints, and opened his mouth wide. All he could smell and taste was come; it blanketed his face entirely. He heard Jamie stand, heard the swish of his mesh rugby shorts rubbing together, and it dawned on Severin that he could be the only boy in the locker room who was fully naked. 

He took Jamie’s cock into his mouth eagerly, even more eager for Dalmar to begin fucking him. Dalmar knew exactly how Severin liked it, and Severin was positive he’d find his much-needed release in moments. 

Then something terrible happened: Dalmar squatted down, began to fuck Severin in precisely the way Severin liked to get fuck, thrusting hard and deep, pounding at Severin’s prostrate mercilessly. But he wrapped a hand around the base of Severin’s prick and squeezed, giving it zero stimulation, not so much as a teasing stroke. He prevented him from coming. 

Severin tried to pull away from Jamie’s cock, tried to beg – no, demand – release, but Jamie was just as stubborn as Dalmar, keeping Severin firmly spitted on his prick. Severin was gagging, trying to talk around it, complaining, but soon enough both boys had gotten off on Severin, and Severin was left more aroused than ever. 

Jamie came inside Severin’s mouth, leaving it full of come. When he pulled out, Severin started to curse. 

“You fuggin’ – oomph –” he interrupted himself as he gargled and choked on un-swallowed come. The come bubbled past his lips, getting on his face, and the boys laughed at him. He swallowed quickly and began again. “I swear to fucking god, if you don’t touch me right now – ” 

“Hey, Sebastian,” Dalmar said. Severin froze. 

He realized, for the first time, that he hadn’t heard the sound of the shower in some minutes. Sebastian must have just come out, wrapped in a towel, to get dressed. Severin, if he hadn’t been so desperate, would have been embarrassed knowing that his brother could see his come-covered face, or his hole overflowing with the rugby team’s seed. 

“Think you could do your brother a favor?” Dalmar asked. “He’s pretty eager to get off, but, as you can see, none of us would be able to manage another round.” 

These words were incomprehensible to Severin; he was past the point of coherency. He needed to be fucked, needed to be filled up with cock; he didn’t care who did it so long as he was stuffed full. 

“No fucking way.” 

He did hear these words, because the voice was smooth, and deep, and familiar. For a moment, he felt as if he could see the room with utter clarity. 

Sebastian was in front of him, about a meter away. 

He lurched upward, reaching out blindly, feeling air, feeling nothing, and then feeling bare, rough skin. 

“Sebastian,” he whispered, fingertips on his brother’s knees. “Sebastian, Sebastian, please, Sebastian…” 

He thought he might be crying, and he could feel his brother looking down at him, at his pathetic, sniveling form. He reached up, finding his brother’s cock through his shorts, and stroked it. Sebastian stiffened, but another boy jeered, “He wants it, Seb!” 

“Fuck his arse, Sebastian.” 

“Yeah, do it!” 

Suddenly, all the boys were pushing Sebastian, coaxing him, teasing him, all pressuring him to touch his brother. Severin stopped moving, waiting to see what Sebastian would do. The boys quieted down again, and the room felt tense. 

Severin was thrown back – he hadn’t sensed the two large hands pushing at him in time to dodge them. The back of his head hit a locker, and somewhere through his muddled thoughts he realized that Sebastian must be disgusted, enraged. He’d thought he’d felt Sebastian’s arousal, but he must have been mistaken, because there was no way Sebastian could have wanted him – 

“You’re really fucking pathetic, you know that?” That was Sebastian again, and Severin was about to beg someone else to touch him, anyone, when he felt his legs get kicked apart. His hard cock was exposed before him, and he felt his brother towering over him. 

“You either get off like this,” Sebastian said, “or you don’t get off at all.” 

For a moment Severin was wondering what he meant, but then he knew: a hot stream of liquid – of piss – was hitting against his cock. His brother was pissing on him, actually relieving himself on Severin’s cock, and Severin knew he was supposed to be disgusted, but the sensation was exquisite. He moaned, the piss hot, streaming up and down his shaft, and it felt so fucking good. 

Before long, his head was thrown back, and he was crying out his brother’s name, getting off on his own degradation. Spurts of come mixed with Sebastian’s piss, making a mess on the tiled floor. When his brother’s stream eventually lessened to dribbles, and then ceased entirely, Severin leaned against the locker behind him. He was utterly spent. 

No one in the locker room said anything. No one was laughing. No one was making fun of him. Everything was silent. Then, suddenly, there was a banging noise from the end of the locker room, as of a door closing. 

“Sebastian?” he whispered, softly. 

“He already left, mate,” Dalmar said. “He came out fully dressed, brought his cock out, tucked it back in, and left.” 

Severin began to shake. Suddenly the humiliation didn’t seem so fun anymore. The other boys probably thought he was disgusting, sick. But it was their own fault for getting him into a frenzy. They had no right to judge him – 

“Hey, mate.” He was pretty sure that was Jamie. “Can I wipe you off?” 

Severin nodded, and there was a cool, wet towel rubbing gently against his eyelids, clearing his vision. He blinked his eyes open, and saw his rugby mates grinning down at him. Their gazes told him, immediately, that he had not been judged, after all. 

Lane reached out a hand and helped him up. He felt dazed, as if waking from a dream. He was relieved to see that not every other boy but him was dressed in uniform – all of them had their shorts off, and most were completely bare. 

“I could go for a shower,” he said. Jamie chuckled. “And one of you better fucking scrub my back. And a massage, too, while we’re at it – and I mean a real fucking massage. I want my shoulders rubbed. The floor is a fucking bitch, and I’m aching.” 

He stood completely, shaky on his feet, and reached for a towel on one of the benches, swinging it over his shoulder. Before he headed towards the showers, he looked back to say, “That was a good practice, boys.” 


	8. Counting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Bird abuse in the beginning.

The birdy was small and soft. It fit in his hand perfectly, its eyes bright and black. Jim thought he could detect emotions in the bird; indeed, there must have been some conscious process of thought inside that little avian brain, as the birdy had been twittering atop a bush moments ago, but now, in his hand, went silent, cocking its head, twitching, flinching, but mostly remaining still.

Jim squeezed. 

But not too hard. It was just a birdy, after all. It wouldn’t do to go hurting birdies. That would make Mummy and Richie sad, and the birdy sad too, and that was just a bad day. 

“It’s okay,” Jim soothed. “I don’t hurt little birdies, I _swear.”_

He took the pincers he’d pilfered from his father’s garage and crushed the top portion of the bird’s beak. 

Right then, he heard two pairs of running feet dash toward him. He dropped the pincers in a nearby bush and, still holding the bird, twirled around. 

The bird was panicking now, trying to flap its wings against Jim’s unshakable grasp. When Richard saw it, his eyes widened in horror. 

Jim hid the bird with his hand. 

“I just found it,” he said easily. “I think it hurt itself, or some animal got it. I – ” 

He stopped, noticing the third person standing in their backyard. “What is he doing here?” 

At eight years old, Carl Powers was just too big. While Jim and Richard were small-boned and slender, Carl seemed to be going through a growth spurt several years too early. His body was all out of proportion, with his limbs too long for his torso and his feet not quite big enough for a man, but far too large for a boy. 

“M-mummy b-b-brought Carl over f-for a play date,” Richard said happily. Jim groaned internally. Richard was too old to be saying things like ‘play date,’ but, as usual, he was completely clueless. Behind him, so that Richard couldn’t see, Carl grinned mockingly. 

Jim eyed Carl suspiciously. He felt immediate aggression towards the boy who had made his brother cry at a sleepover mere weeks ago, and he was about to say as much when he saw Carl cast his eyes downward. 

Carl was looking at something behind Jim. Jim glanced over his shoulder, at the ground, and saw the gleaming metal tip of the pincers poking out of the bush. 

He looked back up. In the background, Richard was talking, fretting, planning to run to Mummy – as usual – so that she could help the broken bird. But Jim and Carl weren’t paying any attention. Their eyes locked together, and they had a silent conversation. 

Carl knew. He knew Jim had hurt the bird. And Jim knew Carl wasn’t over for any play date. He just wanted to mock Richard further, see how long it took to make Richard cry again. And Richard was standing there, babbling, concerned over a stupid, damaged sparrow. Completely oblivious, as if he’d entirely forgotten about the sleepover. No, worse than forgotten – forgiven. 

Jim didn’t forget. Nor did he forgive. But neither did he want to get in trouble for poking at a dumb bird, and he was certain that, if he told Richard that Carl had just come over to tease him, Carl would have a few things to say to Mummy in return. 

Richard had finally stopped his fretting, and Jim said, “It’s fine, Rich. I’ll fix the bird. I know how to.” 

“R-really?” Richard asked, eyes wide and impressed. It would never dawn on Richard that Jim might lie to him. 

“Really,” Jim said. “So you just go…have your play date.” He cringed at the word. 

“A-actually, C-caaarl and I w-wanted to in-invite you – ” 

“Invite you to the playground,” Carl interrupted. People were always interrupting Richard. Hate flared through Jim’s veins, making him squeeze the bird harder. 

“A-after you m-make the b-bird b-better, I mean,” Richard said. 

Of course Carl wanted them to go to the playground. Jim already knew what would be there: Carl’s friends. Carl wanted an audience for when he truly bullied Richard. It wouldn’t be any fun if no one was there to cheer him on. 

Dryly, Jim smiled. 

“I’ll go there later,” he said. 

When Richard and Carl left, he bent down and picked up the pincers. He looked at the bird. 

“I’m naming you Carl,” Jim told it, stroking the top of its head with his thumb. “I’m going to do lots of nasty, horrible things to you, Carl.” 

* * * * 

Seven. 

Jim dragged the tips of his sneakered toes across the sand as he swung lightly down. He dug his heels in, grinding deeper to where the sand was wet and dark. 

“C-come play w-with us, Jimmy!” Sweet and lovely Richard. Jim looked at him fondly. He was standing on the basketball court across the playground, waving his skinny, pale arms up wildly, as if the more motion he made the more likely it was that his brother would join him. 

It was overcast out. The sky was grey and a storm was in the air. Jim wanted Richard home and safe, but – 

“Yeah, Jim. C-come play with us!” That was Bryan, one of Carl’s idiot friends. The three other boys around Richard cracked up, howling with laughter. Richard looked around at them, not understanding the joke, but after a moment he laughed, too. It wasn’t fake laughter. He wasn’t laughing to fit it. He laughed because, for him, joy was contagious. Happiness didn’t need a reason in Richard’s innocent little heart. 

Eight. 

Eight times Carl and his friends had mocked Richard without Richard realizing it. 

Jim wanted to take him home. He wanted a bath. He wanted Richard’s feather-light fingertips on his back, his neck, behind his ears… 

They were playing their basketball game now. They were all bigger than Richard, and deliberately threw the ball over his head, keeping it just out of reached as he continually jumped for it. He looked like their trained little monkey, and it made Jim sick. 

Nine. 

Ten. 

Eleven. 

Richard might not notice, but Jim saw everything. He saw, and remembered. 

* * * * 

“I h-had s-so much fun. Th-thank you f-fooor c-coming, Jimmy. Th-that was th-the best. I love b-bask-sk-sk-sk – ” He gave up on that one. “ – ball. I love ball. Th-that was the f-funnest fun I’ve ever had! I-I love having fr-friends. C-carl is my best fr-friend in the whole w-world, I th-think. I think so.” 

This had pretty much been going on ever since they’d gotten home. All throughout dinner, Richard could talk about nothing but how much fun he’d had with Carl and the other boys. Mummy was over the moon, of course, and seemed doubly glad that Jim was finally socializing with someone besides Richard. She was so stupid. 

During their bath, their reading time, and now, while Jim was trying to fall asleep, Richard couldn’t stop chattering. 

For the first time, Richard seemed to notice that Jim hadn’t said anything. He shifted on the bed in the darkness, and Jim knew Richard was looking at him, even though all Richard would be able to see would be his silhouette. 

“D-do you th-think so, Jimmy?” 

Jim paused, deliberating. He said, “Do you remember your sleepover, Richard?” 

“Y-yeah…” 

“Carl made you cry.” 

There was another pause, and it was broken by a tiny fit of giggles. Jim closed his eyes for a second, loving the way his brother’s laughter sounded. 

“I-isss that what y-you’ve been w-w-worried about?” Richard asked. 

“Not worried,” Jim said. 

“C-carl told me the tr-truth,” Richard said. “H-he only teased me th-that time b-b-because he u-used to st-st-st…” 

“Stutter,” Jim said softly. 

“…too. A-and it e-embarrass-ssed him s-so much th-that he wanted to t-tease me the way k-kids used to t-tease him.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jim said, positive Carl had lied. “If he knew how much it hurt, why would he do it to someone else?”

Apparently Jim saw very little irony in this. 

“I-I think h-he wanted to b-be like everyone e-else,” Richard said. “But he s-said he was so-sorry, so it’s okay.” 

Jim thought of something. “If he used to stutter, Richard, then why doesn’t he stutter now?” 

“Th-that’s the best part!” Richard said excitedly. He wiggled closer to Jim, wrapping his arms around him. He breathed into Jim’s ear, “C-carl said th-that he f-found a way t-to cure himself, and th-that if we’re fr-friends long enough, h-he’ll tell me his s-secret!” 

Jim hated to admit it, but Carl had an ounce of cleverness to him. He had essentially blackmailed Jim without saying a word, and now he’d figured out how to keep his favorite bullying victim close by his side. Jim wondered how long Richard would wait before demanding that Carl tell him what his ‘secret cure’ was, but in truth he knew Richard would wait for as long as it took. 

“Jimmy?” Richard peeped up, suddenly unsure. 

Slowly, Jim reached for Richard’s hand in the dark. He gave it a squeeze. 

“We’re up to thirty now, Rich,” he said. 

“Th-thirty what, Jimmy?” Richard whispered. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jim said, staring at the blank and black ceiling until Richard drifted off to sleep. 


	9. No Relation

Sebastian was late to their next practice. He arrived in the locker room just as Severin was adjusting his jockstrap, and when Sebastian saw this he said, “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Severin looked up to make sure he was being addressed. 

“Sorry?” he said. 

“You’re putting on a jockstrap? Didn’t you learn from the last time? Take it off,” he commanded. “You’ll play in your bare shorts today.” 

The rest of the team heard this exchange and waited to see Severin’s response. They were all grinning, remembering yesterday, glad to see that their game was continuing. And Severin obeyed, of course, slipping off his jockstrap and pulling on his mesh shorts, only the thinnest of material between his cock and the cold air. The boys practically cheered, giving Severin enthusiastic spanks on their way out of the locker room, and he braced himself for the practice. 

Yet he felt a twinge of concern. He was the only one on the team who knew Sebastian well, and therefore the only one who had registered Sebastian’s command as something other than lecherous teasing. 

There’d been anger in his voice. And anger, with Sebastian, mattered. 

* * * * 

Severin felt naked. The coach stayed outside this time, watching over them as they played a mock game, dividing the team into two halves. Every time he crouched down, or felt the wind blow straight through his shorts, he felt positive that the team could see everything. And, indeed, it was very easy to spot the way his cock and balls bounced as he ran, if one knew what to look for. Which, of course, the team did. 

They didn’t hesitate to have their fun, this time. It seemed like every boy – even the boys who were supposed to be playing against him – passed the ball to him when they had the chance, if only so that someone else would have the opportunity to tackle him to the ground. He was utterly helpless and easily violated. The entire team felt entitled to pulling him down, smearing his face with mud, and grabbing his bare cock – which was not at all a difficult task, as they needed only to shove a hand up one of his shorts legs to paw at or stroke him. And the worst part was how good it felt, how he found himself wishing the coach would go inside so that the boys needn’t worry about anyone catching them. His pleasure came in short bursts – a squeeze to the wet head of his cock, a rapid stroke along his length – before the boys had to stand up and pretend that nothing had happened. As humiliated as he was, he found himself wanting to wiggle out of his shorts entirely, so that someone – Jamie, Dalmar, _Sebastian_ – would come and shove him onto his knees, spreading him wide and fucking him mercilessly. 

Yes. Oh, God. He wanted to be fucked. 

A boy – was it Koji? – tackled him, discreetly shoving a muddied hand up his shorts as they fell, so that his fingers pulled gently at Severin’s balls before pulling out again, and Severin felt the rugby ball taken out of his grasp. He stood, unbalanced on his feet, unable to see clearly through the lust that drenched him in perspiration, which stung his eyes despite the cool air. 

The ball was passed back into his hands again, and it was ridiculous that the coach wasn’t wondering why the boys kept passing it to him. Someone – Dalmar – was on top of him, straddling him, and the other boys were forming a sort of wall around them. Dalmar’s hand was hot and fast and skilled. He pulled Severin’s left short leg so high that Severin’s cock was entirely exposed. He writhed, biting his lip so as to not cry out. Dalmar stroked him, speeding up, and before Severin could gain any ounce of control he felt himself coming, helplessly, onto the field. 

The boys were laughing lowly, but no one took the time to indulge him. As soon as Dalmar had gotten what he wanted – the humiliation of a glob of white, sticky come splattered onto the wet field – he got up and was running with the ball. The boys all dispersed, Severin already forgotten. He was forced to rise despite the post-orgasm drowsiness that washed over him. He moved like his bones were made of jelly, trying to scrape soil over the come he’d spilled without having the coach notice. 

The rest of the practice passed in a blur. Severin felt as if he were walking through a dream as he played, feebly, throughout the rest of practice, only to make his way back to the locker room when the coach blew his whistle, signifying the end of their evening on the field. Sebastian hadn’t interfered with anything on the field, but Severin was unsurprised when his brother shoved him to the tiled floor as soon as the team had returned to the locker room. 

“You’re disgusting,” Sebastian sneered. “What a disgusting fucking slut you are, coming on the field like that. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Severin looked up at him, conscious of the entire team watching them. Sebastian didn’t seem to think Severin deserved to be dressed, because as he waited for a response he pulled Severin’s jersey off of him, yanking up his arms and pulling it past his head. Then he reached out a foot, pushing Severin’s shorts to his knees, exposing his shriveled cock, which was covered in drying come and mud. 

“Well?” Sebastian said. He grabbed Severin’s scalp violently, squeezing. Tears formed in Severin’s eyes as he thought wildly for what the correct answer might be. 

“I…I couldn’t help myself?” he tried. 

“Of course you couldn’t,” Sebastian said. “What a terrible fucking captain we have.” 

He shoved Severin forward, and Severin’s back crashed painfully into the lockers. 

“You owe this team an apology,” Sebastian barked. Meanwhile, the rest of the team was fidgeting nervously. The tension in the room felt very different from the jovial, mischievous mood that had permeated the field. Dalmar stepped forward. 

“Sebastian,” he said, “calm down. We were riling Sev up on purpose out there – ” 

Severin raised his hand before Sebastian could respond. 

“No, Seb’s right. I’m sorry, Seb.” Severin hung his head low, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry, Dalmar. I want to apologize to the entire team. If I want to lead, I shouldn’t act like such a – a slut.” 

Sebastian flashed Dalmar a superior, self-satisfied smile. There was an evilness twisted into his features, a rage emanating from his being. He differed from the rest of the team in that his desire to hurt, humiliate, and dominate was entirely selfish. He couldn’t care less about Severin’s pleasure. 

“Tell the team you have no self-control,” Sebastian commanded. 

“I have no – ” 

Sebastian grabbed Severin’s hair, yanking his head up. 

“Look at the team when you talk,” Sebastian growled. “Look them all in the eyes.” 

Severin did so, finding his words tenfold more embarrassing when he could see the boys before him. “I have no self-control,” he told them, voice wavering. 

“Tell them you’re a bad captain.” 

“Sebastian, stop it!” This was Jamie now. 

Severin gave the minutest shake of his head and said, clearly, “I’m a bad captain.” 

“You don’t deserve to be captain, because you’re so easily made into a groveling, helpless whore.” 

“I don’t deserve to be captain, because…” 

This went on for several minutes, Severin repeating Sebastian’s insults without hesitation, meeting the teams’ gazes with shamed eyes. Then, finally, Sebastian said, “Tell everyone that you don’t deserve to be my brother.” 

The room went stark silent. It seemed as if no one was breathing. It was clear to everyone watching that Severin was taking this exercise to heart, internalizing the words more than he should, and it was equally obvious that Sebastian intended him to. Now, however, Severin looked at Sebastian, and he said quietly, “Sebastian…” 

“Tell them,” Sebastian ordered. 

A moment passed. 

Then, “I…I don’t deserve to be Sebastian’s brother.” 

“Good,” Sebastian said. He gave Severin a pat on the head, indicating the end of the humiliation. As Sebastian took his hand away, Severin watched it eagerly, obviously wanting more pats, more twisted affection. “And now you need to be punished for being such a dirty whore. You need to be taught _cleanliness._ Therefore, you’re going to clean every team member before his shower today. I expect a thorough job. If you make haste, you will be forced to start over again. Do you understand?” 

As he spoke, his voice took on the clear enunciation and confident authority of his father. Only Severin noticed, of course, as he was the only other person in the room who knew Ambassador Moran. And so only Severin realized the earnestness of Sebastian’s rage. None of this was a game to Sebastian. 

“I understand, sir,” Severin said automatically. 

Lane chuckled, because to him it was absurd that Severin should call Sebastian ‘sir.’ The other boys chuckled, too, more out of nervousness than actual humor, and all at once the mood was lightened. Everyone seemed to take a deep breath of fresh air, as if coming up from deep ocean, and only Severin and Sebastian still felt trapped in Sebastian’s rage. 

And so the game from yesterday resumed. 

“Yeah, Sev,” Lane teased. “I’m filthy. Come clean me off!” 

He began to take off his clothes, and soon the other boys were moving, stripping, talking, laughing. Everyone knew that Sebastian hadn’t meant for Severin to use soap and water. Severin was going to clean them all off, one by one, with his mouth. 

Not the most considerate of boys, Lane made Severin begin with Lane’s armpits. The hair was wet with sweat, but fortunately for Severin he found it to be more of an aphrodisiac than a repugnance. He smiled shakily, not quite calmed down from Sebastian’s tense exercise in humiliation, but soon enough he was going at Lane with all of sluttish enthusiasm he’d had yesterday. He couldn’t get hard yet, but he still enjoyed the eroticism of lapping at Lane’s underarms, sniffling at his odor, while the boys around him watched. 

Sebastian didn’t need to repeat his order that things be thorough. Both the boys and Severin were eager to make sure Severin didn’t miss a spot: his tongue bathed each boy entirely, reaching in the boys’ ears, lapping up the perspiration that had formed between their arse cheeks, licking between their toes. A couple of boys – Oliver and Koji, both – came when Severin cleaned their cocks, pulling back their foreskin to lick at the skin beneath. 

They kept Severin on his knees the entire time, and once he was deemed sufficiently thorough, they urged him to crawl on all fours to the shower room. He was made to sit, on his knees, in the room’s center while the other boys turned on all the showerheads, adjusting the water. Cold water rained down on Severin as he waited for it to warm up. He was distinctly aware that his “punishment” hadn’t been completed just yet. 

His instincts proved correct when Dalmar took his hair in a firm but gentle grip and pushed his head back, forcing him to open his mouth as Dalmar’s considerable package was pushed into his face. 

He gave each boy head, working until his jaw was sore. 

“We just want to ensure that you’ve cleaned our most important parts,” Lane said earnestly, right before he shoved his own cock down Severin’s throat. All the boys except Dalmar had similar manners, choking him with the gracelessness of boys who didn’t know their own strength and mostly had no idea what it was like to suck a cock. 

Severin was more than happy to serve, though, swallowing every bit of come the boys gave him. He felt genuinely pleased to be able to satisfy every single player on the team. 

Excluding Sebastian, of course. He watched, outside of the group, showering beneath the farthest corner shower head. His eyes were cool, and although his gaze was unyielding, his cock remained completely soft. 

Eventually the last boy came inside Severin’s mouth, pulling out. Severin swallowed, and this signified the end of the game. 

Lane began clapping, and the other boys joined in, half-jokingly and half sincerely impressed. Severin stood and took a bow, laughing along with his team, and it seemed that things were back to normal again. The intense uselessness and shame he’d felt when Sebastian had made him admit to his own inferiority was like a dream. He still felt every bit the captain, was still confident that any of these boys would obey him during a game. He washed his hair and rinsed his mouth out, saying goodbye to each boy as they dressed and left. 

Sebastian remained, and so did Dalmar, although it was obvious by the way that Dalmar’s eyes never left Sebastian that he was staying out of distrust for Sebastian, out of the protectiveness he felt for Severin. And, sure enough, when Severin turned off his own showerhead and made to leave the room, Sebastian said, “Wait.” 

Severin froze in place. 

“Sebastian…” Dalmar began, warningly. 

“No,” Severin said. “It’s fine, Dalmar. Really. Go get dressed and leave.” 

“But – ” 

“Please.” 

The two boys looked at each other for a long moment, having a silent conversation, and a sickening dread coiled in Dalmar’s stomach. He realized that it didn’t matter what Sebastian wanted, why he might want Severin to remain in the shower room, because whatever it might be, _Severin wanted it too._

Saddened and worried, Dalmar left regardless. The two brothers waited until they heard Dalmar exit the locker room, steel door slamming shut, and then Sebastian turned his own showerhead off. The room was quiet. 

“On your knees,” Sebastian said. His voice was strangely expressionless, no longer possessing the rage it’d held before. All that remained was a cool, collected authority. 

Severin was on his knees immediately. He waited for Sebastian to step toward him. He opened his mouth wide, wondering if this was what Sebastian wanted – for him to make Sebastian hard and suck him off. He wanted to. He really, really did. 

Sebastian’s fingers clenched Severin’s hair again, raising his head. 

“Tell me again the last thing I made you say,” Sebastian said. 

Severin’s heart sank. Quietly, he said, “I don’t deserve to be your brother…” 

“Good. I want the full truth, though,” Sebastian said. 

“The full truth?” 

“Yes. Tell me. Tell me that you’re not a Moran,” Sebastian said. 

“But wh – ” 

_“Say it!”_ Sebastian’s fingers squeezed into a fist, and he yanked, pulling Severin’s hair painfully. Severin cried out. Once Sebastian’s gripped loosened, although it still remained tight, he obeyed. 

“I’m not… I’m not a…Moran,” he said, so quiet that he could barely hear himself. 

Sebastian’s free hand smacked Severin, hard, across the face. Blood trickled down his cheek, and Sebastian said, “Louder. Don’t stammer.” 

“I’m not a Moran,” Severin cried out, shaking, hands on his knees. He kept his head down, gaze planted firmly on the tiles of the floor, on the last streams of water flowing into the drains. 

“Say you’re not my brother,” Sebastian said. 

“I’m not your brother,” Severin said. Sebastian pulled at the short hairs on the back of Severin’s neck, an especially tender spot. Severin expected to be told to repeat it again, to shout it, but it seemed that Sebastian had only wanted to hurt him. 

“Are you related to me?” Sebastian asked. 

“No,” Severin said. 

“You’re not?” 

“No,” he repeated. 

“Look up.” 

Severin was surprised to see that, sometime during his humiliation, Sebastian had grown hard. The head of his cock was a vivid red, glistening with the first drops of precome. 

“Well?” Sebastian said impatiently, a threatening hand on the crown of Severin’s head. 

Severin moved without hesitation. He took Sebastian’s cock into his mouth, down his throat, ignoring his own gag reflex. He was terrified of what Sebastian might do if Severin tried to take his time like he wanted to, tried to touch Sebastian’s cock, kiss it, suckle his balls. 

Sebastian pressed either side of Severin’s face against his flat hands and rammed deep down, setting an immediate, violent pace. He fucked Severin’s throat brutally – not just inconsiderately, as most of the team had done, but with deliberate vehemence. He was trying to make it bleed. 

He made no sound except the occasional grunt, which was probably due to exertion rather than pleasure. Each time Severin made a gagging noise, Sebastian hurt him with a slap or hair pull. 

It was impossible to get any air, and Severin was sure his lungs were going to explode. His face was a bright red, tears falling. He was lightheaded, on the verge of passing out… 

Sebastian came so deep in Severin’s throat that Severin didn’t need to swallow. He pulled out just as rapidly. Severin gasped for air, coughing, retching, sputtering, clutching his stomach. His skin turned from red to pink, then back to its normal shade. Then, very abruptly, he vomited. 

Blood, come, and water spilled across the tiled floor. Sebastian stepped out of its perimeter. When Severin was done, he looked up, wondering vaguely how Sebastian would react. 

Sebastian only glared. 

“Fucking disgusting,” he said. And he left, leaving Severin to clean himself up. 


	10. Stutter

It happened gradually, but Jim saw it so clearly that he could have tracked its progression on a graph. As the days passed, turning into weeks, turning into the colder, sharper weather of deep autumn, the children in Jim’s neighborhood stayed out longer than usual, wanting as much time outside as possible before the winter truly kicked in. Consequently, Carl was inviting Richard to go running around with him more and more, and Jim was forced to leave his precious books in order to follow, stalking their every move. 

It seemed, to Jim, very important to be around for all of Carl and Richard’s interactions, so that he could accurately count each time Richard was insulted. Jim knew he would return Richard’s humiliation to Carl tenfold when the time was right, and it was essential to know how much, precisely, tenfold was. 

But something strange began to happen. While in the first days Jim could count as many as fifty subtle insults thrown at Richard during the day, over time this number decreased. It seemed to Jim that Carl soon found it unsatisfying to bully someone as utterly clueless and fragile as Richard. 

There were moments when the boys were playing – whether it was tag, or football, or basketball – and Richard would do something that warmed Carl. He might trip over his own feet when trying to kick the football, and land in the dirt. As was Richard’s way, he would cry, because he had scraped an elbow or a knee. Jim watched as Carl raced up to him, not to bully him further for crying, but to scoop him up in his arms and bring him home, where Mummy would Band-aid his scrape. Or, one afternoon, Carl and his friends came to the basketball court to find that Richard had worked hard to turn the entire court into a huge hopscotch course, drawn with pink and blue sidewalk chalk. Carl’s friends cracked up with laughter, but Carl seemed strangely endeared, and insisted that the boys play the game. When it turned out that Richard knew about one hundred and two variations of a hopscotch game, Carl indulged him, learning the rules of each and every one.

Since Carl was unanimously the leader of his group, the other two boys would generally leave Richard alone, although somewhat hesitantly, as if they thought Carl’s sudden change of agenda might be a joke. Jim thought the same thing, until the day at the pool. 

When the weather was truly frigid, the boys went to the indoor pool, where the air and water were heated. Jim had never been there, nor had he ever wanted to go there, but Richard was thrilled when Carl invited him for a swim. Carl noticeably never invited Jim anywhere, but neither did he protest at Richard’s dragging Jim everywhere around town with him. He seemed to realize that Jim’s presence was nonnegotiable in Richard’s eyes. 

Jim always stayed out of the way, serving only as a silent and inactive guardian, a premeditator of a vengeful crime he hadn’t quite put his finger on yet. He sat on a poolside chair, watching as Carl and Richard lingered near the edge of the pool, merely dipping their feet in. 

Richard couldn’t swim. He couldn’t swim, and he wasn’t interested in learning. The water terrified him. Instead of pressuring Richard into the water, Carl stayed by his side. Jim saw them talking, and wanted desperately to know what they were saying. Richard and Carl both wore ear-to-ear smiles, and every now and then Carl would ruffle Richard’s hair, as if Richard were a puppy. This made Richard’s eyes go big and round, and Jim could see it, could see Carl falling deep into those eyes. 

This would be the first time, but certainly not the last time, that Jim would witness Richard working his unintentional spell. There was something about him – perhaps it was his delicate and unsuspecting nature – that enchanted everyone around him, from teachers to Mummy to the boy who had once bullied him. It was not that Carl was falling in love with him – they were eight years-old, and that would be absurd – but the affect was much the same. He leaned in when Richard spoke, listening to his words as if they were the most important words ever spoken. Richard’s stutter no longer made him impatient, but made Richard seem further endearing, with the way his lips trembled and how, when he got especially tripped on his S’s, his eyes closed in the gentlest, most Richard-esque frustration. 

Richard was suddenly the only person in the world who mattered to Carl, the only true friend Carl had ever had. Richard, for his part, was oblivious to the spell he himself had cast, and consequently innocent. He felt blessed by his sudden friendship, as if it were a lucky chance of fate and not an event predetermined by his very nature. 

And so when, while Carl and Richard were talking by the poolside on that particular afternoon, Carl’s friend Bryan swam up to the side of the pool, underwater, unseen, and grabbed Richard by the ankles, yanking him into the water, Carl showed no amusement. 

Carl was in the water in seconds, before Jim had even gotten a chance to stand. His arms wrapped around Richard, bringing him back up, and the following events unfolded in a very predictable and suitably melodramatic manner: Richard sputtered and gasped; Carl wrapped a towel around his shoulders and wiped away his tears; Carl cast away Bryan. Carl and Richard shared a very heartwarming hug before starting their walk home. It seemed the friendship was sealed forever. 

To his credit, Jim only rolled his eyes once or twice. 

* * * * 

Jim had never slept without Richard before. Never. He had the faintest recollections of climbing out of his crib as a baby, just barely able to crawl, so that he could be with Richard. Yet now, suddenly, Carl was sleeping over. And it wasn’t that Jim _couldn’t_ sleep beside Richard now. It was just that he didn’t want to, not when Carl was too, because suddenly it didn’t seem special, it was no longer the thing that only he could do. 

And while part of him was delighted that Richard had manipulated his worst enemy into becoming his most dedicated protector, because it signified that there was something inside Richard that was very much like Jim, Jim was also despondent. He didn’t want Richard to have enemies or protectors at all. He wanted Richard to have _Jim,_ just him, just his brother. He didn’t need anyone else. They were – or should have been – an island unto themselves, always, forever. 

He would have thrown a tantrum – screamed and kicked and thrown things. But he knew that this wouldn’t scare Carl away and, even worse, it would probably only deepen the rift that he felt was growing between him and Richard. So he contained himself, in a constant, sulky silence, a harsh shell of simmering anger and vengeful thoughts only serving to shield the very real loneliness that he felt. 

One night, Carl was sleeping over, and Jim, too depressed to bare being around Richard, sequestered himself to the downstairs. He was tweaking a homemade radio he’d built when Carl came bounding down the steps. 

Jim, assuming Carl was just down to grab some snacks, ignored him and continued working. However, when Carl stopped directly in front of him, he was forced to look up. 

“Richard wants you,” Carl said, breathless with excitement. He said the words as if they were a command – not one he was making, but one Richard was making. As if the idea of Richard having a single desire that the whole world would not rush to fulfill was unthinkable. 

Perhaps it was, because Jim followed Carl just as quickly as Carl had dashed down. From the bedroom doorway, the two boys caught sight of Richard. He was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, a book open in his lap. His smile was so wide that all of his teeth showed. His hair was messy, as it always was as of late, because Carl seemed incapable of not touching it constantly. 

“Jim. Jimmy! Y-you h-have to l-lllisten. It’s-it’s – ” He was too excited to go on, squirming as if he couldn’t contain all of the energy pumping through his tiny frame. “S-sit down, please!” 

Jim and Carl sat around him, so that the boys formed a sort of triangle on the floor. The book in Richard’s lap was a book of short stories, and Richard read, “It amused him to imagine it was himself whom he watched, the same hair, the same eyes, the same lips and line of cheek. But the thought palled…” 

He looked up hopefully, and for a split second Jim’s mind merely scrambled to understand the words he’d read, to grasp at their significance. Abruptly Jim realized, and stammered, “Y-you sound – ” 

Jim’s heart stuttered, slowed, and sank. Joyous tears glimmered in Richard’s eyes. 

“C-carl and I d-discovered it,” Richard whispered. “If I speak like this, then I don’t stutter.” 

His voice had become suddenly rhythmic, almost singsong-y, in the bright, chirpy way their teacher’s voice changed when she read their class stories aloud. 

Richard looked at Carl, immeasurable affection in his features. “It’s all b-because of C-carl,” he said. “B-because he wa-wanted me to read him a st-story.” 

Like flint against steel, the anger in Jim suddenly sparked and burst. He jumped to his feet. 

“He lied!” Jim shouted. “Carl lied to you! He told you he could cure your stutter, but it’s not true. He didn’t do anything, he didn’t! It’s just a lucky coincidence – ” 

He faltered when Richard’s smile further split into a grin. Then, seeing Jim’s mingled rage and confusion and hurt, his expression softened and he reached out his hand. 

“I know,” Richard said softly. “C-Carl told me. He co-co-confessed everything, Jimmy. E-even how h-he h-had just been t-teasing me b-before.” 

“You didn’t tell Jimmy?” Carl asked, looking surprised. 

Richard blinked. “Y-you asked me not t-to tell any-anyone.” 

“I thought you told Jimmy everything.” Carl shrugged. 

For once, Carl and Jim were in agreement. Richard seemed to realize he had done something wrong, because he paused for a moment, bit his lip, and said, “St-stay with us, Jimmy. Pl-please?” 

Deflated and defeated, Jim took a seat again, and he heard the rest of Richard’s story. There was something about Richard’s sudden, dramatic fluency which made Jim have to listen more closely, as if Richard were speaking in a dialect to which Jim was unaccustomed. A couple of times Richard slipped out of his storytelling voice and back into his regular voice, only to stutter once more, but for the most part he was impeccable. 

When he finished, he looked up and shut the book in a single motion. He leaned forward and gave Jim a kiss on the cheek, and then did the same to Carl. Jim could not help but feel that Carl’s kiss had rather canceled out his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Richard began reading was The End of the Party by Graham Greene, which is a very good short story about identical twins, by a favorite writer of mine, and can be read [here.](http://www.classicshorts.com/stories/EndParty.html)
> 
> And it’s quite true that people don’t stutter when they speak in a ‘storytelling voice,’ a stage voice, or while singing.
> 
> Sorry for typos.


	11. Quotidian Torture

The practice, the shower, the orgasm - everything passed in a dissociative blur until Sebastian reached his dorm room. His perception likely would have remained just as muddied if he wasn’t immediately propositioned: Ann, the maid, was in his room, doubtlessly wanting to finish what they’d started the other night. He’d thought this would happen.

Sebastian could feel his pulse pounding in his neck, in time with the throbbing in his skull. 

Sex. On one hand, rough fucking sometimes had a soothing affect for him. He liked sex because it was a way to get out energy without hurting anyone. On the other hand, he wasn’t entirely sure he _wouldn’t_ hurt Ann. Sometimes sex triggered the anger, and he didn’t want to know what he’d do if that happened. 

It was hard to think when he was angry. 

“Get out,” he said, opening his door wide. “I’m not in the mood right now.” 

“I’m cleaning your room, you dolt,” Ann said. 

Sebastian really looked for the first time. It was true: She was in uniform and dusting the top of his bookcase. His presumption embarrassed him, and he felt even madder. 

He could feel it. Like a time bomb, growing in intensity. It was about to claw itself out of him again. 

“Get out,” he said quietly. He backed away from her, certain that if she was in arm’s reach he’d – 

What, exactly? 

What would he do? 

It terrified him that he had no idea. 

“Sebastian?” she said, peering at him from across the room. “You don’t look well. Why are you shaking? Did someone hurt you?” 

“Get out,” he said again. 

“Can I get you tea?” she offered. 

_Snap._

He was shouting before he even comprehended it. 

“GET OUT. WHY CAN’T YOU LISTEN TO A SIMPLE COMMAND? GET. THE. FUCK. OUT OF MY ROOM!” 

There was a crashing sound, and the room went dark. His lamp was on the floor, and he couldn’t remember how it’d gotten there. Doors in the hall were opening, boys cocking out their heads to see what was going on. 

Sebastian had to get out of there. 

He couldn’t breathe, and the house master was probably coming. 

He ran, down the hall, past the opened doors and curious faces. He heard racing footsteps behind him. 

“Sebastian, please wait! What’s wrong?” It was Ann. She was a fast runner, and surprisingly persistent. She followed him down a flight of stairs, always just feet behind him. It wasn’t until he went outside that she stopped chasing. 

The sun had set. It was dark, and he kept running. 

* * * * 

After Severin cleaned the showers and returned to his dorm, he was hit with a sudden achiness that spread throughout his body. He felt exhausted, and was certain a full night’s rest would be sufficient convalescence. He deprived himself of this, however, as he had an essay to write. It was not his essay, precisely, but he felt even more of an obligation to finish it because of this. He’d stolen the assignment out of Sebastian’s backpack several night’s before; typically Sebastian just _gave_ Severin whatever homework Sebastian wanted Severin to do for him, but seeing as they were no longer communicating in their typical way, Severin felt it necessary to resort to stealing in order to keep Sebastian’s grades up. He was determined that Sebastian would go to the same school as him, and he wasn’t settling for anything less than Oxford. 

Severin knew it was odd that he was thinking about how to get his brother into Oxford after he just been choked half to death by him, but the entire situation was odd. He felt fine. Physically, of course, not so much. But he felt satisfied in a way he hadn’t since…ever, actually. 

Hours passed, and the dorms on either side of Severin quieted down. It was dark, and silent except for the scratching of his pen. The moonlight shone against his wall, and through the open window cool air drifted. He was nearly done the essay when there was a knock on the door. 

He paused at his desk, sitting straighter. 

It’s Seb, Severin thought, heart beating. He scrambled up and opened his door, hoping, desperately, that Sebastian wanted – 

“I wanted to see you.” Dalmar stood in the darkened hall. 

Severin exhaled, but in a few seconds he was smiling. If he couldn’t see his brother, Dalmar was second best. 

“Come in– ” The words cracked, and out burst a tremendous cough. Dalmar clapped a hand over Severin’s mouth, stifling the noise, and pushed them both inside. He closed the door, protecting them from the prying eyes of the house master. 

When Dalmar pulled his hand away, he looked at his palm. His eyes widened, and he turned his wrist to show Severin the front of his hand. 

Severin had coughed several specks of blood onto Dalmar’s skin. His throat was still bloodied and raw from Sebastian’s brutal treatment. 

Severin raced to think of an explanation, but Dalmar’s friendly face had already transformed, blaring eyes reflecting an anger that showed he knew exactly what Sebastian must have done. 

“He didn’t – ” Severin stopped short, and not just because the words came out as indistinguishable croaks. 

He didn’t – what, exactly? Sebastian didn’t mean to do it? He’d done it very deliberately. And yet how was Severin to explain his total lack of anger, his immense, simmering need to see his brother again, even if it was only to receive the same treatment once more? How was he to explain how immensely gratifying it had been, after years of neglect, to have Sebastian’s hands on his face, pulling his hair, literally forcing his cock into Severin’s mouth? Whether Sebastian had pretended they weren’t related or not, he’d still been the active one, the initiator of something Severin had tried to initiate years ago. Tonight had been _progress._

Dalmar didn’t see any of this, and Severin was in no state to explain. Even if he had been able to speak, though, he wouldn’t have had time to stop Dalmar when he turned around and left, leaving as quickly as he’d come. 

Severin was too drained to go after him. Too drained to even wonder where he was going. He sat back at his desk, rereading what he’d written for Sebastian’s essay. After a couple of minutes, there was a second knock on the door. Hoping it was Sebastian once more, Severin opened it. 

It was Dalmar again, and this time he’d brought someone else. Ann stood beside him, carrying a tray which displayed a steaming mug of tea and many packets of honey. Severin could think of nothing more soothing for his throat. 

“Dalmar said your throat is sore?” She sounded confused, although Severin wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she was thinking about their unsuccessful night the week before. Severin was too exhausted to be flustered by that now, though. 

He nodded, strangely touched, both by Dalmar and the hesitant concern in Ann’s eyes. Maids were not supposed to make boys tea well after midnight; they were supposed to rebuke them for not being in bed. Clearly she was making an exception. 

Severin took the tray from her, thanking her silently with his eyes. 

Severin had thought she would leave right away, but she came in with Dalmar, taking a seat right on the floor as if she’d been Severin’s friend for ages. After a moment, during which he took several sips of tea – and found it just as soothing as he’d hoped – she said, “I can’t find your brother.” 

He looked at her, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it once more, and pointed helplessly at his throat. 

A look of understanding crossed her face – although what she thought she was understanding, he couldn’t say. She continued, “I saw him. Outside. He – ran away. If you find him, tell him…” 

She trailed off, and their eyes meant. As if they had had an entire conversation, Severin blinked and nodded. Dalmar and Severin took seats on the floor, too, and Dalmar rubbed Severin’s shoulders as Severin finished his tea. The honey coated his throat, and he felt much better. 

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door. 

Hoping, yet again, that it was Sebastian, Severin opened the door to find Oliver and Jamie standing side-by-side, both looking sheepish. 

“Hi,” Severin said, surprised. He didn’t know Oliver and Jamie especially well outside of rugby and, recently, fucking. His voice was hoarse, but he could at least speak now. “What are you doing here?” 

Oliver and Jamie looked down either side of the hallway. Severin said quickly, “Oh, sorry. Come in.” 

Looking relieved, as everyone wanted to avoid the housemaster past curfew, they stepped inside and closed the door. 

Neither of them looked especially surprised to see Dalmar, but it was obvious they’d never met Ann before. Severin introduced them briefly and repeated his first question. 

“We just wanted to make sure you were okay, after…everything.” Jamie cleared his throat. “Maybe see if you wanted to talk or something.” 

“Oh.” Severin blinked, oddly flattered. 

“We know we don’t know you that well,” Oliver rushed in to say, as if reading his mind. “But we’d like to, if you want.” 

“Yeah,” Severin said. “Yeah, sure. That sounds great.” 

After they had all seated themselves on the floor, Severin tossing them pillows so that they could get comfortable, Dalmar said, “Are you okay talking in front of everyone?” 

Severin nodded. He felt cautious, not sure how to describe what his brother had done without making his brother seem like a monster. 

It ended up not being so hard. Everyone in the room looked utterly nonjudgmental, and Severin soon realized that they’d all only come to listen to and help him. He was soon pouring out the whole experience. No one said a word during the narrative, although Ann’s eyebrows grew continually knitted together as he proceeded, and Oliver gasped when he described vomiting. 

“And then I came here,” he finished. And he shrugged, as if none of it had been a big deal. 

Ann was the first to speak. 

“Wow,” she said. “Um, wow.” 

“What is it?” Severin asked. 

“You seem so…undisturbed. Sev, I could be wrong – and please tell me if I am – but when you were describing it, it sounded like you _liked_ what happened. Is that true?” Ann asked. 

Severin paused for a moment, looking for even the slightest hint of judgment from amongst his friends. Seeing only gentle concern, and realizing he already thought of everyone in the room as his friend, he said, “Completely. I…I would do it again.” 

“Wow,” she said. 

“Is that so shocking?” 

“It’s just that I saw Seb earlier. He must have just gotten out of the locker room. I think he’s in bad shape, Sev. I think he thinks he hurt you,” she said. 

“What? But that’s ridiculous. I mean, I’ve begged him before to – ” 

He stopped short. Admitting that he liked it was one thing. Admitting that he’d begged his brother to have sex with him was another. 

He’d already said enough, though, for everyone to finish his sentence for him. 

“It’s alright,” Dalmar assured. He leaned over, stroking Severin’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

Severin hadn’t even finished his sentence, but he felt lighter, freer, especially when he considered how not-disgusted everyone around him looked. Suddenly, he had to say it: “I’m in love with my brother.” 

The thumb froze. 

“When you say ‘in love’…” Dalmar began, and his eyes were begging Severin not to tell the truth, but Severin told it anyway. It’d been bottled up inside him for far too long, and he was sick of it, sick of keeping some of the most beautiful emotions he’d ever felt secret. 

“I mean love, Dalmar, in nearly every sense of the word.” Severin pulled away from Dalmar’s touch. “Do I disgust you?” 

Dalmar took a moment, really considering it, which made his answer all the more valuable when he finally decided: “No, you don’t disgust me,” and stroked Severin’s face again, tracing from his temples to his cheek, down his jaw, cupping his chin. 

“You’re fuller of love than anyone else I’ve ever met,” Dalmar said. “So it makes sense that all that love you have bottled up would need to find an outlet, and that, eventually, it may go somewhere it’s not necessarily supposed to go.” 

Severin smiled; he liked this explanation, as it sounded so simple and clean, and he leaned in close to Dalmar, silently asking for a kiss. It was given, and for several long, lazy minutes, they continued kissing, Severin tasting the sharp, familiar scent of his lover, basking in the comfort it held for him. 

It wasn’t until they pulled apart that Severin remembered other people were there. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I know you guys said you wanted to talk, but maybe you weren’t ready for something so intense.” 

“No,” Jamie protested. “Of course we were.” 

“We wouldn’t have made the offer if we didn’t mean it,” Oliver said. 

“I’m older than you all,” Ann said. “And therefore full of worldly wisdom. We can help you, Sev.” 

Severin smiled. “Thanks.” 

“There is one thing we should cover,” Ann continued. “What do you want to do if Sebastian hurts you again?” 

“He didn’t – ” 

“If he gets aggressive,” Ann rephrased. “Do you want to stop him?” 

Severin shook his head. “No. No, of course not.” 

He could tell that, even more than the incest, his willingness to be used so roughly by anyone bewildered them. But they remained supportive. 

“Just in case you change your mind, you should all have some sort of code. Something that Sev can say, that will let you guys know he wants to end things. Would you guys stop Seb, if Sev wanted you to?” 

All three of Severin’s teammates nodded. 

“But I’ll never want them to,” Severin protested. 

“Just in case,” Ann said. 

“Maybe,” Dalmar spoke up, “if you want us to stop him, you can tell us that practice is over? Just say something like, ‘practice is done, boys,’ and we’ll all know what you mean.” 

“But I’m never going to want – ” 

“We’re all assuming he’s going to do something again,” Jamie interrupted. “You heard Ann. It sounds like Sebastian is more confused about this than Severin. He’ll probably lay off entirely.” 

“Just in case,” Ann repeated, firmly. 

* * * * 

Eton’s shooting range was always calm after dark. It was on the edge of the forest, far from the main campus and empty when there wasn’t practice. Father had told Sebastian that he wouldn’t be getting Sebastian out of any more suspensions if Sebastian kept shooting afterhours, when there was no supervision, so he didn’t get his rifle. He just looked at a target, situated yards away, knowing that if he had his gun he could shoot it dead center. Bull’s eye, almost every time. 

Not every time. 

Not right now. Right now, his hands were shaking from anger. He might not make the target at all, let alone its center. And there was no satisfaction in missing a mark. 

There was no satisfaction in anger. 

He hated being angry. He hated the inescapable energy that ripped out of him without his permission. He didn’t know why it was there, didn’t view it as a part of himself, didn’t see its source. It was a parasite that lived within him, and chose when it wanted to leave. Just now, in the locker room, it’d tore itself from him. It emerged whenever he saw his brother. Whenever he thought of touching – 

Sebastian was up and moving. Running, or falling, on the wet ground, punching soil that gave in slightly to his blows, but not enough to stop his knuckles from burning, bleeding, his bones from straining. And the noise he was making, it was a terrible, wretched – fucking – everything was – 

Red – 

It really was red, like they said it was, and it was blinding him, or was that because he’d rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, and the blood, and – 

_Severin. Severin, please. I’m sorry._

Was that his voice? 

_Severin._

Was he sobbing? He couldn’t tell if he was sobbing, but he wasn’t, because he didn’t. Because the Moran men never – 

Everything was red – 

Damp – 

Fading. 

He slumped, abruptly immovable. If he punched the ground now he would have all the strength of a child. That was how anger worked: like dynamite, a lit fuse streaming towards inevitable explosion. And afterwards, a dull and quiet wreckage. 

* * * * 

It was nice, Severin thought, to spend a completely nonsexual night with three thoughtful new friends, feeling Dalmar’s reassuring arm around him the entire time. 

Well, mostly nonsexual. They were thoughtful, but they were attractive, too, and Severin was beginning to suspect that his appetite was rather insatiable… 

The five of them talked for hours. They didn’t bring up Sebastian again, but spoke of everything else. Ann told them how she’d traveled Europe and the United States, before coming to Eton to find a job. 

“Why here, though?” Jamie asked. “And why as a _maid?”_

“Because I was getting older.” She shrugged. 

“You’re only twenty-one,” Severin pointed out. He felt proud, for some reason, to know this about her. 

“That’s too old to be in school, and therefore too old to find nice, _young_ boys whenever I’m in the mood. Unless, of course, I were to find a job at a school. One where all the boys wear tailcoats everyday…” She blinked innocently. The boys gaped, especially Severin, who had always thought of himself as the lecherous one when it came to his affairs with the maids. 

“You’re kind of disgusting,” Oliver said, sounding scandalized. It was so rare that Oliver was outspoken that the boys cracked up. Ann grinned, unperturbed. Then the room was silent for some time. 

When Dalmar spoke up, his tone announced a drastic change in topic. He sighed, saying, “It just kind of sucks, I think, that the most lovable and loving boy in the world, who loves his own brother, should have a brother who probably can’t love anything at all.” 

“Sebastian can love.” Severin’s voice was low, flat, unyielding to argument. “Of course he can love. He’s never been _taught_ tenderness, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel anything – ” 

“He feels anger just fine,” Jamie said coolly. His coolness was directed at Sebastian rather than Severin, but to Severin it was the same thing. He jumped to defend his brother, but it was Ann who spoke first. 

“He’s confused,” Ann said simply. “He’ll get better.” 

“Maybe.” Jamie shrugged. 

As if to sooth Severin, Oliver said, “You’re nothing like Sebastian at all, Sev.” 

He meant it as a compliment, yet Severin opened his mouth to form a retort. But then Oliver was crawling onto his lap, and Severin was reaching for him instinctively, and the response that had been on the tip of his tongue was whisked away. 

Their kiss was luxurious. Oliver’s lips were so soft and sweet that Severin kept wanting to go deeper and deeper into the kiss, until finally Oliver’s back was to the floor and Severin was on top of him, pushing papers and books out of the way as his tongue traced Oliver’s pouted, bottom lip. When they pulled apart, breathless, they turned to see that Dalmar and Jamie were indulging themselves in a similar fashion. Ann was sitting up, grinning like Christmas had come early. 

And that was how the night turned into a languorous kissing-orgy. Dalmar watched as Jamie and Oliver found the places on Severin he had long ago discovered; the way a flicking tongue around the ear would make him gasp, and a hot breath on his neck shiver. Dalmar, it turned out, had a talent for kissing women’s lips, which surprised Severin, as he’d never known Dalmar to be interested in women. 

Whenever one of them would get too excited, the others would break apart and start a conversation until they recomposed themselves. 

They spent so long kissing that, by the time they thought they ought to stop, they were all ready for rest. Ann soon left, but the boys had to spend the night in Severin’s room, lest they risk being caught walking the grounds. Squeezing them all into Severin’s bed should have been impossible, but it wasn’t when they were all eager for more intimacy. They talked long after the lights went off, until they drifted, one by one, into sleep. Severin felt safe and cozy, with Dalmar’s arms stretched tightly across his chest, and Oliver’s legs entangled with his own. Jamie reached over Oliver’s chest to link hands with Severin, and they fell asleep that way, squeezed together, feeling each other’s heartbeats. 

To say that Severin didn’t fall asleep yearning for Sebastian would be a lie. But, at the very least, the mass of three other warm bodies helped him yearn a little less. 

* * * * 

Dalmar couldn’t remember a single occasion when someone had mixed the Moran brothers up. While their DNA, diet, exercise routine, and uniforms should have ensured that they were identical in every way, it didn’t. 

He’d never say it out loud, because it was sounded too poetic, and poetic was cheesy, but it was in the eyes. Severin had the kind of eyes that made you think of warm foods, of thick creams and broths. He looked like the type of person you’d approach on the street when you needed directions. 

Sebastian’s eyes were the eyes of someone who could kill. Of someone who _would_ kill. They struck you with all the intensity of crushed bits of broken glass pressed into the skin. You didn’t meet eyes like that, didn’t want eyes like that resting on you. Eyes like that made you afraid. 

When Severin arrived in the locker room the next day, he didn’t have to declare himself for the boys to know which brother he was. He was greeted, and joined in their usual jokes and laughter. No one mentioned the evening before, although Dalmar knew he wasn’t the only one thinking about it. 

When Sebastian arrived, the locker room became abruptly hushed. He didn’t seem to notice. Dalmar watched as he moved jerkily, unbuttoning his tailcoat mechanically, lacing his shoes too tightly. 

Once they left the locker room, the frozen air hit them, and everyone seemed to breathe. The practice proceeded as it normally did, everyone keeping their hands off of Severin, the coach needlessly reminding them that their first game was coming up in less than two weeks. 

When they returned to the locker room, the silence returned. Everyone undressed without speaking, but Dalmar sighed in relief. It looked like Jamie’s prediction was right, and Sebastian wasn’t going to hurt Severin again. 

* * * * 

This wasn’t the typical way Severin undressed. He never usually took off his socks, jersey, shorts, and jockstrap all at once, without putting on some part of his school uniform in between. But he knew – possibly only subconsciously – that he needed to do something to provoke his brother. 

The reaction was immediate: almost as soon as he’d pulled off his jockstrap, the final garment, and freed his cock, Sebastian’s head shot up. He was wearing his straight-lipped, hard-eyed expression, and his gaze was so intense and unwavering that Severin shivered. 

“Don’t get dressed,” Sebastian said. Severin stopped moving. 

“Lean down with your hands on the bench. Arse in the air.” 

The boys slowed their dressing, watching cautiously as Severin obeyed his brother’s orders. None of them could deny that Severin’s arse, displayed so beautifully before them, wasn’t an alluring sight, but neither did they feel anything but dread regarding what Sebastian might want from him. 

“Do you even realize how poorly you played tonight?” Sebastian asked. “I was going to be generous and let it slide, but you seemed to have noticed it, too. You need me to give you an opportunity to apologize to the team for your pathetic performance tonight, don’t you?” 

The other boys had no idea that Severin had stripped to deliberately provoke Sebastian, but Sebastian was well aware of the fact, although mostly subconsciously. The twins could reach into one another more deeply than they could reach into themselves. 

“Yes, I do,” Severin said. 

“Then thank me for meeting your needs,” Sebastian said. It was eerie how distant his voice was, almost like he wasn’t fully there. If anyone had risked catching his attention by looking at him closely, they would have noticed that he was shaking. 

“Thank you,” Severin said. He wasn’t resting his head on the bench submissively, but craning his neck to look at Sebastian standing behind him, as if desperate to catch even a sliver of a glimpse of his brother. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to apologize.” 

It should have been embarrassing for him, how easily he was prompted into groveling, and how sincere he sounded. But that same sincerity prevented him from being anything but eager. 

“Good. You’re going to apologize to the team now. I want them to know how sorry you are for everything you did wrong tonight. We should start with when the team first went out on the field.” 

When Sebastian said ‘good,’ just the smallest scrap of hollow praise, Severin stilled, savoring the single, precious syllable. 

He couldn’t actually turn enough to see his brother, but he caught movement in his periphery vision. Sebastian was leaning down. 

“You’re so fucking stupid. Haven’t you even realized that you waste our time every god damned practice, by letting the boys all fuck around on the field for ten minutes before you manage to get control of them? And you can’t even control them, can you? It’s always Dalmar who gets them to quiet down for you. You’re a bad leader, Severin.” 

Once Sebastian’s words sunk in, Severin whispered, “I know. I know. You’re – you’re right.” He looked up at the team, who watched with held breaths. He spoke clearly: “I’m sorry. I’m not good enough to lead this team – Oh, _shit!”_

The sole of one of Sebastian’s cleats suddenly walloped Severin’s bottom, producing a stream of pained gasps. The spikes on the shoes dug into his skin, pressing before being torn away, and it _hurt._

Sebastian didn’t wait for Severin to adjust. He gave Severin’s other cheek a spank. Red dots formed on Severin’s skin immediately from the impact of the spikes. 

“That hurts,” Severin whispered. It’d only been two spanks, but his entire body was tensed, and tears were forming in his eyes. He heard footsteps walking towards him, and opened his eyes to see Dalmar approaching him. Dalmar bent down and stroked Severin’s hair. 

“Is practice over?” he asked gently. 

“No,” Severin said unhesitatingly. 

Dalmar kept a soft hand on Severin’s as Sebastian delivered the third blow. And the fourth, and the fifth. 

Even after years of rugby tackles, receiving the occasional beatings from his father, and Sebastian’s not-so-harmless roughhousing, Severin had never experienced something that came close to being this painful. He wasn’t even ashamed of crying; holding back his tears was not a possibility. 

“Five blows for that, even though you’ve done it every single god damned practice. I’m going light, aren’t?” Sebastian asked. 

There was silence. He didn’t notice that the entire team was glaring at him. 

“Aren’t I, Severin?” His voice dipped dangerously. 

“Give him a moment!” Dalmar snapped. “He’s not fully here right now.” 

“No,” Severin said. “I… Yes, Seb. You’re going light. Thank you.” 

Sebastian grunted. It was just a grunt, not even a single word of praise, and yet Severin relaxed somewhat, as if that grunt had been the highest compliment. Dalmar felt sick. 

“And almost as soon as practice started, you let Oliver take you in a tackle. Really, Severin? You let _Oliver_ bring you down? It’s astonishing you even made the team.” 

What had happened was that Severin had snatched the ball and outpaced every other player. He’d been feet from scoring when Oliver, by far the fastest runner on the team, had caught up. 

Severin was spanked five times more. Sebastian didn’t spread the pain around; he kept hitting the same sore spots on either cheek, the skin becoming red all around, and purple where the spikes hit. On the sixth blow, the spikes tore into flesh and Severin began to bleed. 

Severin was a wreck. Dalmar kept wiping sweat from his brow, stroking his hair, and doing everything in his power to keep Severin anchored to reality. But it was obvious Severin wasn’t fully there. He kept shaking his head, and sobbing, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

The only times when Severin would acknowledge Dalmar was when Dalmar would ask if practice was over. 

“No,” Severin would whisper. 

It continued. Sebastian seemed to have remembered every minor error Severin had made during practice, and he brought up them all now. They were legitimate mistakes, but they didn’t stop Severin from being one of the best players on the team. The way Sebastian described them, though, belittled Severin as a player, making him sound weak and foolish. 

The session didn’t stop until Sebastian decided it had. He had to clean Severin’s blood off the soles of his cleats, and he did so without flinching, as if beating his brother bloody was of no consequence to him. 

When he left, the team attended to Severin. They gathered around him, and for once even Lane was solemn. 

“We need to tell the coach,” Lane said. 

“No – ” Severin started. 

“We won’t tell him what Sebastian did,” Lane promised, knowing that that might further humiliate Severin. “Only that he’s been violent – ” 

“No,” Severin said, more firmly. “If anyone says a word about this, you’re off the team. You’re off every team and kicked out of every club in this school.” 

The boys knew Severin was serious, and knew that his father’s influence at Eton made his threat sincere. 

And so the pattern repeated. Each day after practice, Sebastian would think of some new way to hurt his brother, mentally and physically. Each day, Severin repeatedly refused to stop complying with Sebastian. The tortures seemed to get worse and worse. It was like Sebastian was purposefully nearing an invisible line which marked Severin’s limits. Half the team was convinced such a line didn’t exist.

The worst part for the other boys, by far, was the way, just before they all left the locker room after one of Sebastian’s sessions, Severin would get on his knees. 

“Thank you, Sebastian,” he would say. It didn’t matter if Sebastian had just subjected him to excruciating pain, or made him apologize for being gay, or threatened to tell their father about some of the things Severin had done, which always particularly frightened Severin. “Thank you for your lessons. Thank you for teaching me.” 

Sebastian had never asked him to do this. He simply did it. And it was painful to the boys, as if Severin were saying, _“Thank you, thank you, for paying attention to me.”_

No one knew why, but Severin needed Sebastian, needed any part of Sebastian that Sebastian would give him. Sebastian offered only the ugliest parts of himself, and Severin devoured them. 

Until, one day, that invisible line proved to be very real, and Sebastian crossed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I apologize for typos. 
> 
> If it's not too much to ask, I'd like some feedback: I've involved original characters in the story so far. I've been hesitant about developing them, because I'm not sure how they're being received. There are some points in my outline where I can either include original characters or keep the cast limited to our favorite twins. 
> 
> I see Severin as being a very social person. People are naturally drawn to him, so it makes sense that he'd have a lot of friends. But I understand the common aversion to OCs in fanfiction. If you could tell me your preference regarding the OCs, I'd really appreciate it.


	12. In the Morning, Confession

Despite all the times he had hurt her, often intentionally, both physically and verbally, Mrs. Moriarty still loved her son and found no sight more pitiable than the one she stumbled upon on that particular Saturday morning, when she entered her bedroom to finish the ironing: Jim was tangled up in the sheets of his parents’ bed, skinny arms wrapped around his mother’s pillow, his eyes red and blotched with tears. He was lying on her side of the bed, enveloped in her scent. This surprised her, as if she had forgotten that her second son could be vulnerable, as if by hearing his constant cries of, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” or “You’re a terrible mummy!” she’d actually come to believe them.

“Jimmy,” she said quietly, padding over to him. Her side of the mattress sunk beneath her weight. Jim was on his side, back facing her. He didn’t lift his head. 

Tentatively, she reached out and rested a hand on his back. When he didn’t flinch away or try to hit her, she began to rub his shoulder. 

“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked. He didn’t respond. She was so used to his screaming that for a morbid, panicked flash, she thought he might be dead. His chest was rising and falling with steady breaths, though, and she soon felt ashamed of herself. 

“Jimmy?” she whispered. Just then, a clattering noise sounded from her bathroom. She looked across the room and saw that the bathroom door was cracked open. 

A tiny, boyish voice emerged. “More blush! More blush!” 

“Which one is that…” She recognized the second voice as Carl’s, the neighbor boy who’d started playing with Richard a lot. 

“Don’t you want to go play with Rich and Carl, Jimmy?” she asked. 

Her breath hitched when Jim spoke. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” 

His voice was low and disturbingly flat. 

From the bathroom came giggles, along with Richard’s demands of, “I wa-want the re-red lipstick! Red, red, red!” or, “Eye shadow, eye shadow! Blue, blue, blue!” 

Mrs. Moriarty was glad her husband was at work, for she suspected he wouldn’t be in favor of Carl painting Richard’s face with her makeup. She, on the other hand, thought it was a perfectly safe and creative pastime. Frankly, she would probably let Richard do just about anything with his new friend; no longer the meek and mild son, he was expressing a loud, creative side of himself that they’d never seen before. She had a feeling this had everything to do with Carl. 

Or, possibly, with spending less time with Jim. 

She pushed those thoughts away and directed her attention back to her upset son. 

“Of course it matters what you want, Jimmy. Why would you say that?” Mrs. Moriarty asked. 

He rolled around to face her, grabbing her hand from his shoulder so quickly that he nearly twisted her wrist from its socket. 

She tried not to show her pain, discreetly rubbing her wrist. 

_“They hate me,”_ Jim hissed. He sat up, looking right into her eyes. Instinctively she reached out to wipe the tears on his cheeks, but he batted her hand away. 

“Who?” she asked. 

“Richie and Carl. Richie. Richie!” he said. His mouth was open, possibly to carry on, but then he jolted, closing his mouth, eyes widening. When he spoke again the words tumbled out so rapidly that Mrs. Moriarty could scarcely keep up with them: “When Carl comes over, Richard tells me I can’t play with them. He told me he doesn’t want me to because I’m not fun enough and I don’t know all the games Carl knows and I don’t know how to kick a ball like Carl or paint nails like Carl and I can’t do anything Carl can do – and he said I don’t deserve to be his brother anymore – he said he wants Carl to be his twin instead – he told me I can’t sleep in our bedroom anymore and I have to sleep downstairs – _he told me he hates me._ Mum – Mummy,” he piped up her name as if he had forgotten it, like the word had floated from the depths of his subconscious and he’d snatched at it before fully comprehending its meaning, “he said that. I swear he said that. I didn’t tell anyone because no one believes me – no one ever believes anything I say – ” 

As he spoke, his voice rose continually, until he was at his typical shouting volume. The jubilant sounds from the bathroom stopped, and the door flew open. 

“J-Jimmy?” Richard ran out. His face was covered in makeup, all too thickly layered and some put in entirely the wrong places. His lipstick was smudged, and his lips parted in surprise when he saw Jim. 

Carl lingered in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. After a moment he stepped back into the bathroom, out of sight. 

“Richie,” Mrs. Moriarty said sternly. She was positive nothing Jim had said was true, but for the first time she suspected that maybe Jim _thought_ what he was saying was true. He’d lied intentionally plenty of times before, but this seemed different, and she knew it was important to pretend that she took his accusations seriously. “Did you tell Jimmy that he can’t play with you?” 

Richard parted his smudged mouth, surprise and hurt crossing his face. 

“N-no,” he said. “Jimmy!” He ran across the room and scurried up the bed. “I-I want you to-to play with us. I-I mmmiss you!” 

There was something miraculous and hope-inspiring about the way Richard was able to wrap his arms around Jim and, if Jim didn’t hug back, he at least didn’t push Richard away. 

“Did you ever tell Jimmy you hate him, Rich?” Mrs. Moriarty said. She knew the answer already, but she needed Jim to hear it, too. 

“H-hate?” Richard repeated the word like it was utterly foreign and fearful to him. A small, cheeky smile grew on his lips. _“Love.”_ A sudden energy overcame him, and he bounced up and off the bed, reaching out his arms and spinning around. “Love Jimmy! Love Jimmy!” he sang. 

A flicker of a smile nearly made it to Jim’s face before paling. He watched Richard’s spinning and endless, “Love Jimmy! Love Jimmy!”, and Mrs. Moriarty watched him. When Jim looked at Richard, he looked more like Richard. The emptiness of his eyes filled up with a tenderness that Richard’s held all the time. Or maybe that was just Mrs. Moriarty’s wishful thinking. 

“Love Jimmy! Love Jimmy!” Richard spun faster and faster until he toppled, landing on his bottom. A moment passed, and he was soon overcome with breathless laughter. He looked up at the bed. 

“C-come pl-play with us!” he said. His front tooth had fallen out several days before, and he offered his brother a warm, gapped grin. 

There was a moment when Jim seemed to hesitate further, but then he was moving across the bed to get to his brother. Mrs. Moriarty stopped him with a hand on the shoulder, which he characteristically shrugged off. 

“Jimmy,” she said, as gently as possible. “Do you think maybe we could go to your room and talk before you play?” 

Afraid that she had just induced a tantrum from him, she was surprised when he nodded silently. 

* * * * 

He sat on his own bed, hands supporting him and legs dangling off the mattress, not quite reaching the floor. She sat on her knees, in front of and almost level with him. 

“Richie didn’t say any of the things you said he did, did he?” she asked softly. 

Jim shook his head. Mrs. Moriarty almost couldn’t believe he was telling the truth. 

“Then why did you say he did, Jimmy?” 

He shrugged. “It’s the same thing.” 

“What’s the same thing?” 

“I still _know_ he’s thinking it. Even if he doesn’t say it,” he said. For once, he wasn’t looking at her with malice, but seemed like the type of boy who, feeling hurt and excluded, might crawl into his parents’ bed and hug his mummy’s pillow. 

This was the first time in Mrs. Moriarty’s entire life that she felt she could have an honest conversation with Jim. She took advantage of it. 

“How could you know what Richie is thinking?” 

“Because I can! I do! And he hates me, even if he says he doesn’t!” 

Mrs. Moriarty took a moment to choose her words carefully. “Do you think that maybe you project your own thoughts onto other people? Maybe _you_ think all of those things about yourself, so you decide that Richard must think them, too?” 

Most mothers wouldn’t expect their nine year-old sons to understand what that meant, but Mrs. Moriarty had grown accustomed to her sons’ natural precociousness. And indeed, Jim sat up with comprehension, genuinely considering the idea. It was clear he had never thought of this before. 

“It’s hard to know what other people are thinking,” Mrs. Moriarty continued, gentle as always. “Usually when we think we know their thoughts, we’re wrong. That’s why we have to believe the people who tell us they love us.” 

Jim didn’t respond, but it was clear he was listening. 

“Does Richard tell you he loves you every day?” Mrs. Moriarty asked. 

Jim nodded. 

Mrs. Moriarty smiled. “Then maybe you should give that some thought, Jimmy. Why don’t you go play with him and Carl now?” 

It was clear that Jim was already giving it thought, a lot of thought, as he rose and got off the bed in a bit of a daze. Mrs. Moriarty watched as he walked to the door and, thinking that this was a rare opportunity to talk to her son without having him scream at her, she decided to push things. 

“Do you love your brother, Jimmy?” she asked. 

Not looking back at her, he paused in the doorway. A moment passed, and Mrs. Moriarty regretted asking, was wondering if there was any advice in any parenting book in the world that would help her know how to respond to his upcoming, _“No.”_

Jim spoke with an earnestness that was unfitting for a nine year-old. In a tone that warranted no doubt, he said: “Richard is precious to me.” 

* * * * 

Jim had closed his bedroom door before he left. Mrs. Moriarty wasn’t sure if this was because he’d already forgotten she was in the room, or because he wanted to give her time to think, but she chose to believe it was the latter reason and took advantage of it. She was, therefore, deep in thought when a sudden shouting erupted from her bedroom. 

“WHO ARE YOU TO TELL HIM THAT? HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT.” 

Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Moriarty rose. She had thought that maybe one day – just one, single, God-given day – could pass without Jim exploding into a tantrum. Clearly it couldn’t. 

She approached her bedroom and stopped in the doorway. She'd expected to see Jim yelling at Carl, but instead found that her husband had come home early for lunch. Her stomach sank. 

James was holding her eye shadow case in one hand, and in the other he was grasping Richard by the collar as Richard struggled fruitlessly to get out of his grasp. Richard was sobbing softly, and for a moment Mrs. Moriarty wondered why, until she spotted the unmistakable, red mark of James’s hand on Richard’s cheek. 

It was because of this mark that Mrs. Moriarty took longer than she needed to to enter the room and stop Jim’s shouting. She let him go off on James for just a few more seconds. 

“How’s he supposed to know what ‘men’ do and don’t do when you’re never around to show him?! You never even look at him unless you have something to bully him about! And then you just smack him around because you’re too FUCKING STUPID to figure out how to TALK. LET HIM GO.” Jim paused, but seemed to have plenty more to say. He was clearly prepared to shout himself breathless. The way he looked directly into James's eyes, so much shorter and smaller and younger, yet entirely unafraid, was disconcerting. 

“Let him go, James,” Mrs. Moriarty said softly. The three males of her family looked at her for the first time, clearly not having noticed her in the doorway. “I gave Richard my permission to put on makeup today. There was nothing else for him and his friend to do, and they were bored.” 

James looked at her, and for a moment she was afraid of him, afraid of the way he was pulling Richard’s collar too tight without realizing it, so that it was becoming harder and harder for him to breathe. 

Then he released Richard. Richard stumbled, almost fell, but regained his balance with Jim’s help. James didn’t stop looking at her. 

“All three of you,” he said, “get out. I need to talk to your mother.” 

Carl – the poor child – poked his head out of the bathroom, and the three boys hurried out. Well, Jim didn’t hurry. He lingered in the doorway, turning around to glare one last time at his father. Mrs. Moriarty shivered when she saw this, and wondered why James wasn’t shivering too, like he couldn’t feel the _hate_ emanating from Jim like something tangible. 

* * * * 

While Richard and Carl went outside, wanting to be out of the house until Mr. Moriarty went back to work, Jim stayed near his parents’ door and eavesdropped. 

The two adults were quiet for a long time. Eventually, Jim just barely heard his mother sigh, “James…” He pressed his ear closer against the keyhole to hear better. 

“No. Don’t. Don’t bother getting angry. If you can’t control your sons – ” 

“They’re your sons, too!” Mrs. Moriarty said, and Jim was surprised by the anger in her voice. 

“That _girl_ and the brat who can’t keep his mouth shut? They’re not my sons. I haven’t raised them.” 

“And whose fault would that be?” 

“Yours. And mine, but only mine in the sense that I’ve let you stop me from raising them properly. You know exactly what those boys need. I say it almost every day. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the – ’” 

“Absolutely not, James. Don’t even bother.” 

“Then don’t act surprised when one of them starts acting like a girl and the other – the other – There’s something _wrong_ with that boy, Siobhan. Something that needs to be beaten out of him.” 

“Ridiculous. Jim just needs to know he’s loved. I told you before. He needs to see someone to help him – ” 

“A priest, a doctor? You’re going on about that again? His _father_ knows exactly how to straighten him out, and any priest or doctor with a speck of common sense would agree!” 

“We’ll just see about that,” she said. “In the morning, we’ll take him to Confession. He hasn’t spoken to Father Callan in ages.” 

“And if that doesn’t work?” 

“Then you said it yourself. Jim’s not your son,” Mrs. Moriarty said coldly. “Let me worry about him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write, and I sincerely apologize if it was difficult to read. 
> 
> I honestly want to flash forward to when they're all in their thirties, happ ~~y~~ ier, and having filthy, kinky sex with one another. BUT I WILL PREVAIL. Hopefully you will too? I am going to speed things along quite a bit, but I still want to show glimpses of Jim/Rich's adolescence (Jimcest!).
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.


	13. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter contains **non-con.** I really wanted this story to be entirely consensual, but this scene and a future chapter (in Part 3, so down the road quite a bit) feature non-con elements. If anyone is uncomfortable with this, please leave a comment saying so and I will gladly give you a non-triggering synopsis of this chapter.
> 
> Thank you.

One weekend a month, some of the Eton boys liked to go home to their families. Others, like Sebastian, would very much prefer to stay at school, but were forced to go at their father’s commands. And Severin, perhaps, was the only one able to defy those commands, convincing Augustus Moran time and time again that it would be much more _productive_ for him to spend the weekend with Dalmar’s family. Severin always had an excuse: he was doing a project with Dalmar, Dalmar had invited him on a hunting trip, et cetera. With one son gone, all the attention turned to Sebastian, and there was nothing he could possibly say that would get him out of spending one night a month with Ambassador Moran.  


The dining hall was massive and cold, icy chandeliers hanging from a ceiling so high that, by the time the dim light reached the table, it was scarcely noticeable. The room was eternally dark, as if emerged in deep sea. Their dining table stretched long enough to seat fifty guests comfortably, yet it was rare that the Moran household received visitors. With infrequent guests and a small family, such a long table might seem unnecessary, but Sebastian had witnessed several occasions when the distance was very necessary indeed.  


He sat at one end of the table, and his father at the other. The occasional clink of silverware reverberated off the walls, but besides this there was no noise.  


Sebastian kept his eyes on his plate, his fork limply following after a stray pea. His typically voracious appetite had abandoned him, so that he could only nibble sporadically. The lamb was too pink, and blood filled his mouth when he chewed it. On the other end of the table, his father helped himself to third servings of everything.  


* * * *  


It was ridiculous. Mrs. Mensah’s house _always_ smelled like gingerbread cookies, no matter what time of year it was. Of course, Severin thought, possibly this was because she knew that gingerbread cookies were Dalmar’s favorite dessert, and so she always made them when he visited. For Severin she made lemon cakes.  


And they made dinner together, along with Dalmar’s four sisters. Everything Severin knew about cooking he’d learned from Mrs. Mensah.  


Of course, Mrs. Mensah wasn’t _actually_ her name. To him she was just –  


“Mum,” Severin said, “how is the squash going on? Diced or sliced?”  


“Just in slices, dear,” she said. She was a larger woman, with big hands and a bigger bosom. When she hugged you she felt warmer than most people, and you could feel her full bosom pressing against your chest, creating the perfect pillow on which the younger children could rest their heads. She smelled like the goods she baked, and when Severin had first met her, just after his thirteenth birthday, he’d secretly thought that she had all the qualities any proper mum should have.  


She turned her back to the counter, where Dalmar and Severin were chopping veggies side-by-side. As soon as they were out of her line of sight, Dalmar leaned over to pinch Severin’s butt.  


Severin smacked him and kept chopping.  


When dinner was ready, they all brought the dishes out to the veranda, where they could simultaneously stay warm but also look at the woods in the distance as they ate. The Mensah table, round and small, forced them all to crowd in. Severin had never thought to ask why they had such a small table when, with Dalmar’s father being the English Ambassador to Egypt, they had ample money to invest in a dining hall like his father had.  


* * * *  


Eventually, the tense silence cracked, giving way to tenser conversation.  


“Have you finished your homework for the weekend?” Father asked gruffly. He didn’t look at Sebastian as he spoke.  


It was only Friday evening. Sebastian had scarcely been home long enough to complete it all, but he said, “Yes, sir.” He instinctively straightened his posture.  


“Show it to me.”  


“I’m sorry?”  


“I’m sorry, _sir,”_ Father corrected. “If you’re going to sit there and not eat, then get up and show me your work. Are you sick?”

“No, sir,” Sebastian said. He rose from the table to get his homework, silently giving a prayer of gratitude that he had, in fact, managed to finish an essay, and he was quite proud of the result. 

“Sit back down!” barked Father. Sebastian seated himself immediately. “Excuse yourself from the table properly!” 

“Please excuse me, sir,” Sebastian said, swallowing. His father gave a stiff nod, and Sebastian rose. 

He returned with his essay. His father read all five pages in under a minute, it seemed, while continuing to cut and eat his bloodied lamb. 

Sebastian watched his father’s face for any reaction, but the man’s features remained stony and unreadable, his lips carved into a permanent half-frown. Eventually, he looked up and directed his gaze at Sebastian. He was naturally authoritative, stone-hard and of impressive stature, and when his eyes – several shades lighter, and icier, than his son’s – met Sebastian’s, Sebastian stood absolutely straight. 

“Severin wrote this for you.” It wasn’t even a question. 

Sebastian, who had been reserving a tiny strand of hope for some rare word of praise from his father, was so surprised that he merely gaped for several seconds, before his father shouted, “Prompt response!” and he said, “No, sir.” 

“Who wrote this for you, then? A friend of yours?” 

“I wrote it, sir.” 

“I’ve read several of your other essays. They sounded like a pompous ten year-old had written them: unorganized, unpersuasive, arrogant in tone. Now you expect me to believe you wrote this.” 

In actuality, Severin had probably written the other essays he’d read. Not that Sebastian was going to mention this. 

“Yes, sir. Because I did write it, sir.” 

“So you are the one who is of the intelligent and unconventional opinion that…” His father paused to search the essay, scanning for the paragraph he wanted. “…‘By the early twenty-first century, Israel’s prominent place as the United States’ most funded country will fall, giving way to a new era of funding unstable Islam-based countries within the Middle East.’” 

“I am the one who is of that opinion, sir,” said Sebastian, feigning calmness. 

“That’s a very unusual prediction, Sebastian,” said Father, mocking. Sebastian wanted desperately to have a discourse on this very subject, to prove all that he knew about it, but he wasn’t to speak unless he’d been asked a direct question. “Finish your dinner.” 

His father practically shoved the essay back into his hands, almost crumpling the paper he’d worked so hard on. His heart sank with disappointment, which would, in later hours, transform into anger, and he returned to his seat. 

* * * * 

The weekend passed, too quickly for Severin and not quickly enough for Sebastian. When they returned to school, only one thing was on either of their minds: the first big game of the year was coming up, and it needed to be won. Severin focused on getting his team out on the field more than ever for their last week of practice before the game. Everyone took this extremely seriously; on the field, even Sebastian listened to him. 

But not so in the locker room. After games, when they were dressing back into their uniforms, Sebastian kept up his cruel torture. He no longer masqueraded his viciousness as a sexual game; it was now violence, plain and painful. He beat Severin wherever he pleased, no longer bothering to order him around or test his limits. The rest of the team had wordlessly and unanimously rejected him as an actual member of their team; if they watched the way he hurt Severin, it was only to stop him from going too far. And if Severin protested to that, they didn’t much care. 

Each night, Severin could depend on at least two of the four – Dalmar, Oliver, Jamie, Ann – coming to visit or spend the night with him. He never slept alone, and could always count on someone being there to bandage his wounds. 

“He’s getting worse,” Dalmar said one night. Severin was on his bed, speckling his sheets with blood as Jamie applied alcohol to his a cut on his shoulder. Sebastian had grabbed Severin’s shoulder so sharply that his nails had pierced skin. 

“I think he’s getting better,” Severin objected. “Honestly, I’m fine. He doesn’t even hit hard anymore.” 

“Then why is there a shoe-shaped, black bruise on your back?” Jamie inquired softly. 

Severin shrugged away. “It’s only a bruise.” 

* * * * 

Each morning, Sebastian rose and made a promise. To himself. To God. To his father. 

He was going to stop hurting Severin. 

Each evening, he went into the locker room and lost the same battle. If he looked at his brother, he felt unacceptable arousal. If he deliberately looked away, he could think of nothing but what he was looking away from, and inevitably both methods led back to the same problem. 

Rage. 

* * * * 

Friday evening came. The game was won 21-6. They won because they practiced hard, but also because, as Eton boys, they possessed a certain surety, a confidence that might talk about defeat in the theoretical sense but never actually considered it a genuine possibility. 

Whenever the rugby team won a notable game, it seemed as if the school rules were relaxed for them for some time afterward. Therefore, it had not been at all difficult to help four girls from an outside school “sneak” into the rugby captain’s dorm. Without any formal announcements of a celebration, most of the team made it to Severin’s dorm, along with a considerable amount of alcohol. 

Severin, who knew his father would flay him if he ever got whiff of the fact that Severin was drinking, stayed sober, limiting himself to regulated amounts of beer. The girls who came apparently didn’t have fathers like Ambassador Moran and were tipsy in astonishingly little time. 

The entire team directed their boasts to the girls, who, they were thrilled to learn, were mostly the sisters of boys from the rival, defeated team. Somehow, during their predictable bragging, the girls had stripped off their shirts and skirts. Severin felt little to no interest in them, and almost wished they’d leave so that he could direct his flirtations on more interesting targets, such as a Dalmar who would be, by the end of the hour, on his way to drunk. Dalmar made a randy drunk. 

Suddenly, the dorm room opened. Everyone looked at the door with little concern, not fearing the hall master for one night. 

Sebastian walked in. 

A couple of nervous glances were exchanged between the boys, who had collectively agreed not to mention their gathering to Seb, but most of them weren’t quite sober, and the entire room was filled with such a joyous uproar that it seemed infeasible Sebastian would just start beating Severin in the middle of Severin’s own dorm, with four girls watching to boot. In addition, Severin seemed perfectly happy to have him there. 

“I wanted you to come,” he started, smiling, as if winning their first game meant the brothers were now on speaking terms. Meanwhile, the other boys seemed to be gravitating toward the other side of the room, like Sebastian carried some contagious disease. 

Severin rose to greet him, but Sebastian grabbed the back of Severin’s scalp and pulled him to the floor. He did it slowly, all while pulling Severin close with the other arm, as if they were hugging. No one seemed to noticed that Severin had been forced on his knees. 

“Cute girls you picked out, brother,” Sebastian murmured to him, eyes scanning the four guests. They all looked over at Sebastian and giggled. Sebastian situated himself on Severin’s bed; Severin remained near him on the floor. 

“I didn’t know you had a _twin,”_ said one of the girls, a buxom brunette. It was obvious she didn’t know Severin’s name and equally obvious she didn’t care. 

Severin smiled stupidly. “He’s my brother,” he said, and this made all the girls laugh, as if he’d meant to be funny. 

“I’m his master,” Sebastian corrected. He looked over the room, pleased to see that the rest of the team seemed distracted. Jamie was giving some sort of anecdote that had them all enthralled. 

“Master? Ooh, what does that mean?” asked the brunette. 

“It means I tell him what to do, and he listens,” said Sebastian. The girls all giggled again. “If, for instance, I told him to kiss you, he would,” he continued. 

“Prove it,” the girl said immediately, eyes twinkling. Severin grinned. 

“Sev…” was all Sebastian needed to say before Severin was on her. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her roughly to him. They kissed messily while the other girls all watched in awe, apparently hoping they’d be next. 

Sebastian, though, had other plans. He watched idly for nearly half a minute before suddenly reaching out and grabbing Severin by the hair. Severin was yanked back, hissing in pain. 

“Is that how you treat a girl?” Sebastian asked roughly. Severin didn’t answer, startled, confused, and Sebastian pulled his hair again, shaking him. “Is it?” 

“I – ” 

“How dare you pull her like that! Let _her_ kiss you.” Sebastian looked up at the girls, and, sounding like the perfect gentleman, he said, “Have you ever dominated a rugby captain before, ladies?” 

They all smiled and shook their heads. Severin waited cautiously, aware of Sebastian’s hand still resting on the top of his head, as a warning. 

“I bet Sev would love it if you two – ” Sebastian pointed at the brunette and a petite black-haired girl, “ – marked him. Have you ever given love bites before? Sev loves it when girls bite his neck.” 

Sebastian gestured for the indicated girls to come forward with a wiggle of his finger, and they sat on either side of Severin. 

Severin tried not to move as the tongue of a girl he didn’t know was suddenly sliding, slimily, up his neck. His muscles were strained without him realizing it, but when Sebastian demanded he tilt his head back, to give them better access, he did. He could still feel Sebastian’s hand on his head, and suddenly Sebastian said, “Harder! Don’t just lick. _Bite._ Bruise him.” 

The girls obeyed, giggling all the while. Severin bit his lower lip to keep from crying out as the brunette bruised his skin with her teeth. 

“You,” Severin pointed at a second brunette, “get him hard.” 

Severin felt clumsy, drunken pawing between his thighs, and he tried to scramble away, but Sebastian’s fist squeezed his scalp threateningly. He stayed put, heart beating, not sure why he didn’t like this. What kind of guy didn’t want four girls to himself? And yet the brunette was slobbering all over his wounded neck, and the black-haired girl’s tongue was in his ear, and it was all he could do to just close his eyes and remain completely frozen. 

“It’s okay, you can take off his shorts,” Sebastian said. Severin was still in his rugby uniform, and with a little more encouragement from Sebastian – assuring her that Sev liked it, Sev was just being shy – the second brunette pulled off his shorts and jockstrap in one go, exposing a soft cock. 

“Pull at him, make him hard,” Sebastian demanded. 

Hands fumbled too roughly, scratching. Severin squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if this girl had ever touched a dick before. 

“Not your nails!” he hissed. 

“He’s kidding,” Sebastian said. “Sev loves nails.” 

Fuck, no, he didn’t. He cried out in pain, which made one of the girls pull back, but Sebastian was sweetly assuring them that he loved it, those were just the sounds his brother made, keep going. 

“He loves eating pussy,” said Sebastian. “Why don’t you stand over him and make him lick you until you come, darling?” 

This was directed at the fourth, remaining girl. There was some drunken shuffling as the girls rearranged themselves, so that the fourth could stand. She reached out and, with Sebastian’s mixed affirmations and demands, pulled Severin forward. 

“Lick her pussy, Sev,” Sebastian said. 

Severin gave the minutest shake of his head. He tried to move as the second brunette began pulling at his balls – _fuck that hurt_ – but they were all crowding around him, and the fourth girl kept shoving her mound against his mouth. He could smell it, moist and slightly sour, and suddenly he didn’t care what Sebastian wanted. 

He opened his mouth and said, “Please – ” but the girl was practically humping him, juices smearing against his lips, making it nearly impossible to speak. 

He writhed, trying to get out of her grasp, and when the second brunette saw him struggling she seemed to take this as a sign that he liked the assault on his balls, and once more began – holy christ – using her nails. 

Severin didn’t realize it, but he was crying now, tears streaming down his face. One of the girls was licking mercilessly at his right nipple, which felt dead to pleasure, desensitized. 

He yanked away, into Sebastian’s grasped. 

“Dalmar!” he shouted wildly. “Jamie! Please!” 

Two things happened simultaneously: The girls, through their drunken haze, realized that Severin was not, in fact, enjoying himself. 

One of them said, dumb and horrified, “Oh my god…” and stumbled away from him. 

Jamie and Dalmar turned around upon hearing Severin’s cries, and they were across the room in a millisecond. Jamie pushed the other girls away from him, barking orders of some sort, which Severin couldn’t hear because Oliver, suddenly, was helping him up, and he was being guided somewhere. It seemed like everyone was moving and shouting at once, but he focused on Oliver, on Oliver’s small hand grasping his, moving with a purpose Severin couldn’t predict, opening a door, taking him into – the bathroom, yes, this was his bathroom. 

“It’s okay, you’re alright,” Oliver kept saying, and he was running his fingers softly through Severin’s hair, soothing his sore scalp. 

Severin collapsed against the ledge of the bathtub. 

“Dalmar,” he said. His heart was beating wildly, and an awful scent and taste was still clogging his throat. 

It was Jamie who next came into the bathroom, not Dalmar. He said, “Those girls are gone. Fuck, Sev. Are you alright? What the hell were they doing?” 

Severin shook his head, brushing the question away. He felt stupid, suddenly, for calling for help. They were a bunch of _girls,_ and yet – and yet he’d been so overwhelmed, and – 

“I want a bath,” he said weakly. 

Oliver nodded and turned the spigot. Hot water began gushing out. 

“I sent the rest of the team out, too,” Jamie said. “I hope that’s alright?” 

“Thank you,” Severin said. “Where did Dalmar go?” 

“Um…” Jamie peaked through the door before closing. “I don’t know. He’s not here.” 

“Tell us how we can help you,” Oliver said. 

* * * * 

“Are you going to kill me?” 

This was the first thing Sebastian said when Dalmar shoved him into his own dorm and closed the door, not bothering to turn on the light. 

He could be excused for the melodrama, because in Severin’s dorm Dalmar had sincerely looked capable of murder. His face had worn an expression of stony concentration, unreadable except for his eyes: they’d gone from dark to an intensified, impossible ebony, a look that Sebastian had only ever seen in his father, right before he beat Sebastian. 

“Is that what you think I should do?” Dalmar asked. Only the moonlight shone through the window, and Dalmar was a black silhouette against blacker night. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sebastian said dryly. He felt detached, like he wasn’t quite there. He almost couldn’t remember what had happened in Severin’s dorm, or why, or what he’d said. The girls’ faces blurred into one in his mind’s eye. 

Dalmar stood by the door, so still that Sebastian imagined he was in a predator’s frozen stance, motionless until the moment he pounced and attacked. Sebastian was ready for him. 

Surprisingly, no punch ever came. Instead Dalmar said, “Do you even understand what you just did, Sebastian? You almost had your brother _raped.”_

“They would have stopped before that happened,” Sebastian said carelessly. 

“The girls? Maybe,” Dalmar said. “I don’t think you would have.” 

“I wouldn’t have,” Sebastian said. This time, he had his fists ready for Dalmar’s attack. 

Dalmar sighed. Sebastian didn’t realize he’d turned around to leave until he heard Dalmar twist the doorknob. 

“Aren’t you going to hurt me?” Sebastian asked. 

Dalmar paused. “What does it feel like when you hurt Severin? Or when you’re making other people hurt him?” 

_I can’t imagine a worse pain._

Sebastian didn’t say it, and yet somehow the answer hung in the air regardless, seen clearly by both of them. 

“There’s no need for me to hurt you, is there?” Dalmar said. But then hurt Sebastian he did. “If it helps, you can at least go to bed knowing that you’re not his brother anymore.” 

“What?” Sebastian asked, startled. 

“Brothers don’t do things like that to each other. You can’t do that to someone and call him your brother. Severin will realize that’s true, and by morning, I’m sure you can consider all your ties to him cut off.” The door opened. “I’m leaving now, but I’ll only be across the hall. If I so much as hear this door creak open half an inch tonight, you’ll be packing your bags and leaving Eton by morning. Of course, you might be packing your bags anyway, depending on whether or not Severin reports you. Which I’m sure he will.” 

The door closed, leaving Sebastian alone. He felt oddly small. He wanted to curl up in his comforter, like a child, but he wasn’t sure he could reach the bed. He felt tiny and alone and afraid. 

“I am his brother,” he said, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear himself. His heart wobbled, and he thought he might cry. Softly, “I am his brother.” 

_I am._

* * * * 

When Dalmar came back to Severin’s room, he found Jamie on the bathroom floor, legs crossed, waiting while Severin scrubbed every part of himself clean. He didn’t ask for help in the task so, like Jamie, Dalmar didn’t give it; he sat down on the rug instead and said, “Oliver left?” 

Jamie shrugged. “Kind of disappeared, actually. He was here a few minutes ago.” 

“Do you want us in here, Sev?” Dalmar asked. Severin was entirely covered in a thick layer of bubbles, only his head peeking above the water. 

“For now,” Severin said. “I think.” 

“Anything you want, Sev,” Dalmar said. 

There was a light knock on the bathroom door. Oliver entered, smiling sheepishly. In his hand was, absurdly, a strawberry smoothie. Dalmar frowned. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

“I thought Sev might want it.” 

Apparently Severin did, because he took it and immediately began drinking. 

“I thought it would wash out the taste of…” Oliver looked away. Severin nodded. 

“Where’d you get it?” he asked. 

“Ann,” Oliver said. 

“Did you…?” 

“I told her it was an after-game treat,” Oliver said calmly. “Do you need anything else?” 

Severin left the smoothie sit on the porcelain ledge. He unplugged the bathtub stopper, and water gurgled down the drain. 

“A towel?” he said. 

He was handed a towel, but chose to dry himself off. He wanted to dress by himself, so the other boys went into his bedroom. When he came out, he admitted that he needed to be alone. 

For the first time in many nights, Severin was left to sleep by himself. He found the idea of sleeping repulsive, however; he felt the need to be awake, alert, in control. He cleaned up his dorm, picking up leftover beer bottles and crumbs, feeling a small sense of security in setting things right, in erasing all evidence of the party. After everything was clean, he sat on his bed, waiting for fatigue to overcome him. It didn’t. Instead he got up and rearranged his furniture. 

With the morning came the weekend and, finally, exhaustion. Before the sun fully rose, Severin stepped out of his dorm and crept down the hall. He picked open Dalmar’s lock in the way Dalmar had taught him to, and closed the door behind himself. He slipped into the bed, quietly, so as to not wake up Dalmar, and snuggled his forehead into the warm curve of his friend’s neck. 


	14. Anarchic Inklings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about Catholicism. I mean no offense.

At night the small Irish town was so deathly silent as to induce an intense migraine if Jim listened too closely. He could not hear his parents, Richard, or Carl sleeping upstairs; it was as if he were alone in the house, alone in the town, the town that was his world, the last person alive amidst slumbering corpses. 

There was the moon. 

Moonlight spilled all over the floor like a dully glowing stain, and if Jim were to reach out and poke it with his toe, surely the floor would undulate, a puddle. 

There was his mind. 

His thoughts shone brightly in the dark, and they made him itchy, restless. They made him get out of his bed on the couch, dropping pillows and blankets carelessly on the floor. He stood on the tips of his toes, narrowly avoiding the moon-puddle on the carpet, as if, should he touch it, he might drown in it. 

He followed the light out the front door. 

The air was oddly still. It hung over the town like a thick shroud, and Jim waded through it, barefooted and pajama-clad, unconcerned that any of his neighbor-corpses might peek through their bedroom blinds and see him. His skin tingled with shivers; he was the only one awake in this small town, the only one moving, and that secret knowledge set him afire. 

He had begun his midnight walks shortly after Carl had started sleeping over regularly, leaving Jim abandoned on the downstairs couch. It had been triggered by a bout of Richardless insomnia, as well as the sudden idea that the moonlight looked like fire, like a flame washed over the town, and fire was warm. Like body heat. Like Richard. And out the door he went. 

The first time, it’d been half a block. Half a block before he stopped abruptly, shaken to the core of his spine with a sudden euphoria. That half a block felt like miles, as if he’d left his family behind in exchange for a trail of golden, moonlit pavement. The town was mysterious at night; inversed, with the shadows taking the place of the light and the eerie light filling up the crevices usually left for shadows. The forbidden allure drew him closer and closer to the farther away, and with each night he made it his goal to go farther than he had the night before. 

Tonight, he’d reach the bridge. 

Jim could count the number of times he’d crossed that bridge; it’d always been with Mummy, usually to visit relatives on holidays. Everything his family could ever want or need could be found within their town: there was the church, the grocery store, the school, the park, the library, the hardware store, the store where Mummy bought father’s shoeshine. Et cetera. All of these things bored Jim immeasurably, but he was not, in his inexperienced youth, entirely certain that anything else existed. He’d read about more interesting places before, but perhaps the texts were not reliable, perhaps they were the hopeful fabrications born from minds made just as stale and jaded as his. 

He was acutely aware of the fact that his father crossed the bridge every day for work. This induced in him a jealousy and, in addition, a small dose of respect. 

He did not, objectively, walk very long, but to small pioneer legs it was quite the trek. The immobile air was tarnished by a breeze that originated from the waters beneath the bridge, and it jolted Jim’s nerves. Alive, alert, awake, he neared the edge of the bridge. It was a massive construction of tar and steel, devoid of cars or any signs of life at such an unconventional and unripe hour. It curved upwards in such a way that Jim could see nothing ahead of him but the bridge, and while he had planned, initially, to stop at its edge before returning home for the night, he was hit with the sudden need to cross it. 

There was no contemplating it. As soon as the idea struck, he had no choice but to keep walking. The bridge was a foreign object to him, the marker of the end of the familiar, and crossing it seemed impossible. He’d never considered it before. Even just a minute ago – just a minute ago, even after he’d left his home and walked through the dark, past houses and houses of dead-sleeping bodies, even after that – it’d been like some invisible barrier barred him from continuing his journey. But that barrier didn’t exist, did it? He could walk across the bridge. Mummy was asleep, no one knew he was gone, and he had hours before sunrise. He could walk across the bridge. 

This part of the voyage was time consuming, both in perception and actuality. For over an hour he could see nothing but an ascending wall of bridge, of empty black road and metal girders. Only once was this stark expanse interrupted, and to his excitement: a car crossed the bridge, coming from the opposite side from which he came, its unsuspicious driver not spotting Jim’s small figure. Jim stopped in his tracks after it passed, and he turned around to watch, mouth half-open, as the car entered his town. He couldn’t imagine what purpose its driver had, interrupting a graveyard town with his beaming headlights. 

This thrill was incomparable to the one that hit him later. Eventually, after much effort, he reached the zenith of the bridge. There was now nothing blocking his view from the next town. If he took a step farther he’d begin his descent. But he didn’t go farther at that moment; he could see the town, and that was enough. That was ample. 

There were lights. 

Hundreds of lights. Car lights, streetlights, and most exquisitely, the lights in the windows of houses. They sliced tiny circles in the darkness, irrefutable signs of human activity. And every now and then, when Jim watched closely, silhouettes flitted past those circles. People, walking past the lights and hearths of their homes. People, breaking the stillness of night, disregarding darkness, moonlight, time. 

A tableau of a town as seen from a peak of a bridge through the eyes of a boy would change, forever, the way that boy saw the world. 

* * * * 

In the morning, as she’d promised, Mrs. Moriarty prepared to bring her son to Confession. She’d made the appointment with her priest in the evening the day before, and he’d been kind enough to schedule Jim in with little notice. For now, however, she pushed the thought of Confession out of her mind. She could only get through each day if she dealt with one obstacle at a time. Right now, the obstacle was getting through breakfast without Jim throwing another tantrum. 

He was sitting on the edge of his seat at the breakfast table, across – for some reason – from Carl, who’d slept over. His legs dangled off the chair, and he kicked energetically, as if he wished his limbs were long enough to reach across the table and knock Carl out of his seat. Carl didn’t notice Jim’s kicking, however; he was focused on the way Jim was glaring at him from behind his cereal bowl. There were deep circles beneath Jim’s eyes, making his glaring all the more harsh, and Mrs. Moriarty fretted. Why did he have those circles? 

She cautiously put a plate of fruit in the center of the table, which Richard graciously accepted, while Carl and Jim paid her no mind. Carl wasn’t glaring; rather, he was watching Jim curiously, as if he couldn’t fathom why Jim should be so bothered. 

Jim spoke up so suddenly that Mrs. Moriarty nearly jumped. 

“When do I have Confession?” 

“In an hour, dear,” she said. He flinched when she said ‘dear.’ 

“Is Richie going?” 

“No, he isn’t.” 

“Are _you_ going?” Jim asked contemptuously, jabbing a spoon at Carl. 

“I – I went last week,” Carl said. 

“That’s curious,” he said, sounding older and younger than he was at the same time. But what was curious, he didn’t say. Everyone seemed to think it best not to ask. 

* * * * 

Jim was strangely ponderous all morning. He followed Mrs. Moriarty sulkily out of the house, not saying a word. Even when he was in a bad mood he was talkative, but today he seemed to be sinking into himself, keeping his thoughts inside. Mrs. Moriarty wasn’t sure whether she should be concerned or relieved. 

She tried to hold his hand as they walked to the church, but each time she did so he wretched his hand out of her grasp. He walked a crooked path, like a drunken man, shuffling his feet with a mix of reluctance and contemplation. 

“The church,” he said, as the neared the very building. “There are people who go to the church who don’t live in our town.” 

“Yes…” Mrs. Moriarty began. 

“They’re from the other town? Across the bridge?” he asked. 

“That’s right,” she said, not understanding his line of thought, or why it mattered. “They don’t have a church, and our small town isn’t enough to keep our church up and running. So they come to ours.” 

If Jim was listening, he didn’t show it. 

* * * * 

While in the confessional booth, Jim always tried to see his priest’s features behind the grid which separated them. But it was of no use. It was stupid; he knew what his priest looked like – young, with an ugly, blond goatee that sat upon a pointed chin, jutting out strangely. Jim had seen his goatee. Why should he hide it when Jim was confessing? 

No, it wasn’t the goatee. Jim had long suspected that the priest was afraid of him. Whenever they spoke tete-a-tete, without a grid between them, Father Callan seemed put off by Jim’s precociousness. He joked with Mummy about how extensive both his and Richard’s vocabularies were becoming, but whenever Jim or Richard used a ‘grown-up word,’ which was often, Father Callan seemed slightly unnerved, as if they were doing something unnatural. 

Although he knew he was supposed to whisper, Jim began in a perfectly conversational tone, without waiting for Father Callan to speak. “Bless me, Father,” he said, “for I have sinned. It has been thirty-two days since my last Confession.” 

The priest was silent; the head of his silhouette bowed, and he waited. The entire ordeal was littered with a routine that was rather silly. Jim kept thinking of bright lights littered across cityscapes. 

Jim spoke brightly: “I am guilty of many things, Father. I have concealed numerous mortal sins from you during past Confessions. I have committed many mortal sins many times a day, particularly on Sundays, for nearly five years now.” He lifted his hand and held up one finger. “I am ashamed to have to tell you that I have rejected my faith on a daily basis.” A second finger rose. “I am guilty of placing childish trust in false teachings and substitutes for my true God.” And a third. “I have committed idolatry and unsacred idiocy.” 

“These are serious sins to be committing, child,” whispered his priest. ‘Child,’ he said, and yet was only in his twenties himself, the child of another man, probably also a priest. His pressing of paternal matters was unimpressive, as was his solemnity, at odds with Jim’s light tone. “I’m proud of you, though, for having the wisdom at such a young age to recognize what you’ve done. Tell me: Do you have sorrow for your sins?” 

“I am deeply sorrowful,” Jim said, nodding animatedly. “I am deeply ashamed. That's why I'm requesting Absolution from you, Father.” 

“Good. However, I must know the specifics of your sins. I must have precise knowledge of the state of your soul in order to absolve you. You say you have rejected your faith. How?” 

“I've denied my core beliefs in exchange for unholy lies told to me by the adults in my life. I trusted them because they were authority, but they have led me astray, Father.” Father, Father, Father. 

“It is sad, but true, that a child cannot always trust grown-ups to show him the light of God.” 

“True. But I'm still responsible for my own sins,” said Jim forcefully. 

“It is good to accept responsibility, for your Contrition will be all the more sincere. You say you have committed the sin of following false teachings, on a daily basis, for five years. What false teachings were these?” 

“The teachings of Catholicism.” 

A pause. Then, “I do not understand.” 

“I don’t expect you to.” A small, satisfied smile. In the dim light, Jim’s dark eyes gleamed. 

Jim knew he had stumped his priest. Eventually Father Callan said, as if the last several bits of their conversation hadn’t happened, “What idolatry have you committed, precisely?” 

“I have worshipped the Trinity, idolizing the false gods of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” 

“Do you hear what you are saying, child?” Was that _confusion_ Jim detected in the wise priest’s voice? Was that irritation crawling out from the gentle soul? How absolutely satisfying it was to see this unshakable man so shaken. It was like knocking down the church with his bare hands, brick by brick, cracking the ugly stained glass of the Virgin Mary that had loomed over Jim in Mass every Sunday of his life. It was like moving to a town that didn’t have a church. 

“Will you give me Penance, Father?” Jim asked innocently. 

“I’m afraid our Confession is over for today. Please come back again during one of the next scheduled sessions.” 

“By then I will have found my own Penance." Can't say Jim didn't warn him. 

“I must ask that you leave," the priest insisted. "I have others coming in today for their Confessions, Jim. Please, go home.” 

Jim pursed his lips, if own to stop his grinning. “Thank you for your time, Father.” 

“I will be praying for you, son,” came the whispered voice from behind the grid. Jim thought Callan must be very glad for the grid just then. 

“I'm sure you will be,” said Jim simply. He reached out and knocked on the thin shield that separated them. Callan seemed to jump, although it was hard to tell, but surely he looked sideways and saw Jim wave cheerily before he rose and left the booth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for typos.


	15. So Much More

Severin sweated between his sheets. He was hot and sticky, with his hand on his half-hard cock. He’d been rubbing himself halfheartedly for hours; he was too horny to fall asleep, but too tired to take care of his horniness. 

He’d ended up spending the weekend, unexpectedly, at Mrs. Mensah’s house, after Dalmar suggested it’d be a good way to forget about that horrible party. He had had no trouble forgetting about the party at all, however, as another, constant thought obsessed his mind: He needed to talk to Sebastian. 

Talk? No, that wasn’t it. He needed… 

He rolled over, groaning, and stroked harder, trying to become fully erect. What he wanted was… 

Maybe just to look at Sebastian. See that Sebastian was alright. Although why he wouldn’t be, Severin had no idea. But suppose Sebastian needed him? Maybe just for help with homework. Or maybe someone to release his anger out on. Fuck, he didn’t care. He just needed Sebastian. 

He stood without having decided he would stand. It was crazy, going to his brother’s room. Firstly, it was the middle of the night. Secondly, the house master was prowling around somewhere. And thirdly, Dalmar had called was Sebastian had done at the party _attempted rape._ But – 

But out in the hall he went, thankfully finding it empty. He knew Sebastian’s door would be locked, but maybe he could just press his ear against it and hear Sebastian’s breathing. That would probably be enough. 

Another miracle: Sebastian’s door – how could this be? – was open a crack. Maybe Sebastian actually _wanted_ Severin to come and visit him. That was far too much to hope for, surely, but Severin was willing to take the risk. 

He pushed the door open, flicked on the light, and found the room empty. 

Really empty. 

Not only was Sebastian’s bed unoccupied, but all the things had been stripped off his bookshelves, too. His bedside table was bare; nothing cluttered the floor. Nothing, except for half a dozen cardboard boxes. 

Severin’s heart stuttered. Why would Sebastian be packing? Had he already left? 

Severin released a soft, anguished cry, momentarily loathing himself. He was selfish for ever leaving campus. If he had stayed this weekend, maybe he could have talked Sebastian out of leaving. But why would he leave? It didn’t make any sense. Surely he didn’t think Severin would try to get him into trouble? Never. He had to tell Sebastian that. He needed to find – 

The door behind Severin clicked shut. Severin whirled around. 

Sebastian stood there, and it was clear, as he looked up, that he had thought he was alone when he closed the door. When he saw Severin, his eyes widened like he was a deer caught in headlights, and he made to run. Before he could swing the door back open, however, Severin launched forward and tackled him, rugby-style, into the wall. 

Severin was speaking before he could stop himself. 

“Please, please don’t leave.” He sounded pathetic and desperate, even to himself, and as he spoke he struggled to maintain balance atop Sebastian’s back. Sebastian was falling down, sinking beneath his weight, struggling to throw Severin off of him. Severin clung. “Sebastian, Seb, I need you. Please, please don’t go. Stay. Just stay. I’ll do anything you want me to. Anything, I promise. I won’t object to anything ever again. I won’t say no. I’m sorry I stopped you the last time. I won’t do it again. I promise. You can do anything to me, please. Please. Please just stay. Please, Sebastian. Stay. Please.” 

It took several long seconds of this for Severin to realize that Sebastian was talking, just as desperately as him, and it was a couple seconds more before he registered Sebastian’s words: “ – anything you want, Severin. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t ask for anything, except that you do what you want to me.” 

“What I – what I want?” Severin broke in, and the way Sebastian froze beneath him made it obvious that Sebastian, much like Severin, hadn’t actually heard his brother’s words. 

“Anything you want,” Sebastian said. “You have until sunrise, which is plenty of time. Then I’ll never speak to you again. We’ll see each other as little as possible. I’ll always stay out of your way. When you come home, during the summers, you can hurt me whenever you want, however you – ” 

“Hurt you?” Severin echoed numbly. 

“In whatever way you like,” Sebastian said. There was both pain and eagerness in his voice, and Severin was confused. “You can use your hands, if you want – I can even show you how. But there are also knives in the box by the bed. The small box. And I can get rope, too, if you want. The rough kind. It’ll leave burns. I’ll show you how to tie it tight.” 

It clicked: Sebastian hadn’t sunk beneath Severin’s weight. He was too strong for that. He had kneeled, as if in surrender, opening himself up for whatever Severin might want to do to him. He must have thought – 

“Do you – do you think I’m mad at you, Sebastian? That I want _revenge?”_ Severin asked, quietly. 

Sebastian didn’t seem to understand the question, because he didn’t answer. Severin slowly released his hold on him and scrambled off his back. Sebastian shuffled around, on his knees. He kept his head bowed low. 

Severin went to his level, on the floor. 

“I’m not mad,” he said. Sebastian wouldn’t meet him gaze, but Christ, the look in his eyes broke Severin’s heart. That’s what it was – broken. Sebastian looked utterly destroyed. All the hardness in his eyes was gone. He looked like someone whose world had ended. 

“I’m not mad,” Severin repeated, reaching out and touching, softly, Sebastian’s cheek. Sebastian flinched at the touch, and it seemed to yank him out of his trance. 

“Hurt me!” he cried. 

“I’m not going – ” 

Sebastian looked so unclear, dazed and desperate, not fully there. He babbled, “I know I’m not your brother anymore. That means you can do anything you want to me. Anything, and I deserve it, whatever it is. I don’t care how much it hurts, it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter.” 

Severin wasn’t sure what to do, so he kissed him. 

A single, soft, tender kiss. He half-expected Sebastian to get angry, like he always did when Severin touched him, and lash out. The other half seemed to know what was really coming. 

When he pulled away, after just a second, Sebastian blinked a few times. He looked around, like he wasn’t sure where he was, wasn’t sure why he was on the floor. Then he began to cry. 

Sebastian Moran crying – in front of someone, with real, wet tears streaming down his face – was a rarity. Even as a boy, he’d never cried when he fell, never cried when his father hit him. Never cried for a mother he didn’t have, nor even cried because he didn’t have a mother. Severin had always guessed that he might cry when he was alone, but when around people, when anyone was watching – _Sebastian Moran did not cry._

Sebastian was crying. Sobbing. Hysterical sobs ripped themselves out of his chest, and Severin held him close. Sebastian clung tightly to him, pressed his face into Severin’s neck, getting his neck and bare chest wet. Severin didn’t mind. 

“I – I don’t – understand – why you’re – ” Sebastian was crying too much to finish his sentence, but Severin understood what he meant anyway. He stroked Sebastian’s back and said, “Come on, Seb. You understand violence so well. Understand this, too.” 

“I don’t understand violence,” Sebastian said sharply. “I don’t. I don’t know why I get so angry. I don’t understand anything.” 

Severin allowed himself a small smile. “Not a single thing? That’s rough, brother.” 

“I’m so confused.” Sebastian sniffed. It was strange to watch Sebastian – strong, immovable, unfeeling Sebastian – sniff. “I’ve been confused for ages. Ever since we came to school, and I started feeling... I miss when I didn’t – I didn’t – ” Sebastian swallowed. “I miss when we were brothers.” 

“Shush, Seb. That’s where I draw the line. We’re still brothers,” Severin said, and he squeezed his brother tight. 

“But – ” 

Severin pulled away and placed a finger on Sebastian’s lips. 

“Can’t you see how amazing this is, Seb? We’re _brothers,_ and yet we have the opportunity to become so much more. Even when I was a child, I knew I wanted this. Not _this,”_ he gestured to Sebastian’s still-crying form. “You, I mean. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve always wanted to be your brother, but also so much more. And then, one day, it turned out you felt the same way. Do you remember the first time I sucked you off? That was one of the best nights of my life. I want to be between your legs again.” He stopped short, reconsidering. “I mean… This isn’t just about your cock. That’s my whole point. It’s about _everything._ Can’t you see how miraculous we are? We’re brothers, yes, but there are plenty of siblings who barely even speak to each other. We’re _best friends._ But there are best friends who remain perfectly platonic. We _want_ each other. I know you want me. You have before, and you just need to let yourself feel that way again. 

We love each other in every way there is – like family, like friends, like lovers. It’s incredible. How could you take one of those types of love and decide it’s wrong? We can’t just pick and choose our feelings, Seb – we _shouldn’t_ pick and choose. We should love each other more thoroughly than any two people have ever loved each other before.” 

While Severin was speaking, Sebastian had gradually calmed down. He tried pushing Severin’s arms away, but Severin kept them there, kept Sebastian locked in a hug. Sebastian was forced to rest his head on Severin’s shoulder. 

“Father would kill us,” Sebastian whispered after a moment. 

Severin raised his eyebrows. “When do we even see that fucker?” 

“I saw him two weekends ago,” Sebastian said, trace amounts of bitterness in his voice. 

“Really? Why - ?” Severin stopped himself. “That’s not the point. Just stop seeing him, then. Come to Dalmar’s. That’s where I go.” 

This time, Sebastian pulled away so quickly that Severin couldn’t stop him. 

“No!” he said wildly. “I can’t, I – ” 

“It’s okay!” Severin rushed. “Shh, shh. It’s okay. We don’t have to go to Dalmar’s. We’ll stay here. In your room. In your bed.” Severin grinned. “For forty-eight hours.” 

Sebastian gave a weak smile. “You’re such a slut, Sev.” 

“I don’t care,” Severin countered. “I want to. Please.” His tone turned serious. “Please, Sebastian. I want to. I want _you._ So badly. I’m willing to beg. You’ve seen me beg in front of the entire rugby team before. I’ll admit it to whomever you want. I’ll do anything you want, any way you want. Just – just, please. Please, Seb. Please let me love you. Let me touch you. Please. Just a little. Anything is fine – even, even if I could just hold your hand. Just sometimes. Please. Please.” 

Sebastian was gaping at him, disarmed by the desperation that gushed out of Severin’s sudden, frantic begging. 

Severin had been failing to get fully hard all night, but suddenly he had a raging erection, and was leaning forward, if only to get close enough to smell Sebastian’s musky, delicious scent. 

It was Sebastian’s turn to grin. He said, slowly, “Wow. Wow, _brother_. Out of all the incredibly gay things you’ve said and done in the last couple of weeks, asking to _hold my hand_ is by far the gayest.” 

Both of them laughed. Sebastian understood that he didn’t need to ask for forgiveness. All he needed, right now, was to do as Severin asked, and that would be enough. So he reached out, with an uncertainty that didn’t seem to fit his character, and, very slowly, as if his brother might run away, or prove to be the phantom of some dream, he rested his hand on top of Severin’s. 

He still heard a tiny voice in the back of his head, one which resembled his father’s, telling him that hand-holding was unmanly, that this moment should be embarrassing. But for once he didn’t care. When his brother squeezed his hand back, Sebastian felt a quiver of the heart. 

It was remarkable. Severin looked identical to him – he knew this to be true, because his father mixed them up constantly. And yet when Sebastian looked in the mirror, he felt no sudden arousal. There was no intake of breath as he paused to admire his own beauty. But Severin. Severin was an entirely different matter. Sebastian certainly couldn’t be called a narcissist for his fraternal attraction. Far from finding Severin’s face familiar and comfortable, Sebastian could marvel at it endlessly. And apparently Severin felt similarly, as they simply sat there, contemplating the other’s face, for several minutes. 

Inevitably, Sebastian’s eyes drifted downwards. Severin slept shirtless, wearing only a thin pair of boxer briefs. 

Sebastian knew himself. He knew, for instance, that he liked the softness of women’s breasts, he liked tracing their curves, out and in and out again, to the hips. Severin was none of this. He was broad at the shoulders and chest, with contoured abs that led to unwomanly hips. His hipbones jutted out ever so slightly, casting shadows over his skin. Sebastian reached out, fascinated, fascinated by his own fascination, by the way only his brother could push him into this lapse of heterosexuality. 

He touched Severin’s neck, fingers drifting over his Adam’s apple. It quivered slightly as Severin swallowed, and Sebastian felt that he’d never handled anyone so delicately, nor watched anything so carefully, before. There was a part of him that was afraid of moving, afraid that Severin would suddenly remember the awful things Sebastian had done, and run away. But there was also a part that recognized he’d never really taken his time with Severin before. He could take his time with women – and what were all the women in the world, compared to his brother? 

“Say it again,” he whispered, leaning in close so that his voice was hot in Severin’s ear. He loved the way Severin instinctively pressed towards him, as if hungry to gobble up the space between them, to get them as close together as possible. 

“Say what?” Severin asked. 

“That you’re my brother,” said Sebastian. 

Severin smiled his small, secret smile, the one that Sebastian was sure he never wore, and Sebastian felt himself reaching for Severin’s lips, tracing his fingers over them. Severin closed his eyes and said, “I’m your brother. I always have been and I always will.” 

How deliciously sweet those words were. 

“Say it again,” Sebastian asked desperately, and Severin tried to, but Sebastian captured his lips in a kiss. Severin returned it eagerly, groaning, hands on Sebastian’s shoulders, chest pressing against Sebastian’s shirt. Even through the material of his clothing Sebastian could feel the intense heat emanating from Severin. He pulled away only long enough to shrug off his shirt, during which time Severin said: “I’m your brother. We’re brothers, we’re related, and it’s sick and wrong that we want to fuck each other. It’s disgusting, and we should be repulsed by the idea. But I say fuck that, we’re brothers, and if we want to fuck each other then we will.” 

“Well put,” Sebastian said – or tried to, but Severin was already on him, apparently thinking they’d had enough tenderness for the night. He was in Sebastian’s lap, legs folding on either side of Sebastian’s thighs. He had taken off his briefs while Sebastian was shrugging off his shirt, and now he was very politely smearing the precome from the tip of his cock onto Sebastian’s stomach. 

“You’re gross, Sev,” Sebastian said mildly. 

“I wouldn’t talk. You have a penchant for pissing on your brother,” Severin pointed out. 

“I didn’t say I _wasn’t_ gross,” Seb objected. 

“Which, by the way,” Severin added, “you can do again, if you’d like.” 

“Get on the bed,” Sebastian said, and Severin hastily scrambled off him. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, as if he were addressing his father, and the two grinned. While Sebastian was searching through a box for his lube, Severin arranged himself on his back on the bed, with his knees up and his legs spread. 

“In this position we can look each other in the eyes,” Severin said conversationally. “Isn’t that darling?” 

“We’re real fucking romantics tonight, Sev,” agreed Sebastian. Shortly after, his cock breached into Severin with little preparation, and he shoved a hand over Severin’s mouth when Severin gave a pained shout. 

“Real – fucking – romantic,” Severin panted as his brother pounded him. Sebastian answered by spitting on Severin’s cock and smearing his spit all over its head, mixing his saliva with Sev’s precome. Sebastian stroked Severin's shaft while pummeling his arse, and soon enough his brother was driven right over the edge. 

“Oh - fuuuuck!” Severin hissed. He pulled Sebastian toward him as he came, and sunk his teeth into Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian grunted, not slowing his brutal pace. He grabbed a handful of Severin’s hair and pulled, and the pained yelp Severin released pushed him exactly where he needed to be. 

He opened his mouth to express his last coherent thought, but then he was coming, waves of pleasure crashing over him. After days of being in such a dump that he hadn’t even touched himself, he released a stored-up supply of come into Severin’s arse, ejaculating for ages. 

* * * * 

They lie together on Sebastian’s bed, limbs tangled. Severin’s head rested on Sebastian’s shoulder, and Sebastian petted Severin’s scalp tenderly, trying to soothe the soreness from when he’d pulled his hair. 

“What was it you said, when you were coming?” Severin asked. “Tried to say, I mean. It came out all garbled.” 

Sebastian thought for a moment, then said, “I was trying to say that you sounded like a little bitch.” 

“How sweet,” Severin said. 

“I like that you sound like a little bitch,” said Sebastian earnestly. “That’s how I know when you really, really like it.” 

“I always sound like that when I’m with you.” 

Sebastian smirked. “That’s because you always really, really like it.” 

“No denying that,” Severin said, snuggling closer. And wasn’t that nice. Just to _cuddle_ with his brother, without thinking of what his father thought, or whether or not God was watching. If God was watching, well – what a fucking pervert that made Him. 

“Say it again,” Sebastian said yet again. 

Severin gave his bare, smooth chest a kiss and said, “You say it, this time.” 

There was a pause. A long one. Eventually, though, in a voice that was just a certain as Severin’s had been, Sebastian said, “I’m your brother. We’re brothers.” 

“And so much more,” Severin said. 

“Much more,” Sebastian agreed, and he wrapped his arms around Severin a little tighter, as if to make absolutely sure he’d really spend the night. Then, feeling calm at last, he fell into a deep and easy sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be deeply impressed with anyone who leaves a comment.


	16. The Company in London

Friday night. Saturday morning, actually. And he’d crossed the bridge and he’d entered the town and now he stalked its streets and threw stones at its walls, and kicked its street signs, and was furious. 

It was all the same. 

He’d thought – 

He’d thought – 

There was no church here, Mummy had said so, and that was supposed to _mean_ something, that was supposed to make a _difference._ And it was true that some of the buildings were bigger, taller, more immaculate, and maybe there were more lights on in the houses and a few more people moving about, but it didn’t _matter._ No one was doing anything _special._

Jim passed his second grocery store and his sixth office building before he heard them. 

They sounded like rats – large rats. This was his first thought. They created the scrabbling of vermin from deep down a dark alley, and that was a little special, wasn’t it? There weren’t alleys in Jim’s town. And there weren’t normally people who sounded like rats, shifting through dumpsters. 

“Get that one!” someone called out, hissing but still loud enough for Jim’s attentive ears. Jim stopped at the mouth of the alley. He saw shadows at the end of it. About three people, he counted, two of them bent over an office dumpster. None of them noticed him. He looked down the street. There was no one else around. 

“Holy shit, look at this. Someone grab me – I can’t get this out on my own,” one of the shadows, a man, said. He was almost entirely submerged in the dumpster, so Jim couldn’t tell what he wanted his friends to look at. Only his legs stuck out, and a smaller man grabbed these and began hauling him out. 

The first man landed with a grunt on the ground. In his arms was a large box, one so heavy he struggled to hold it, and for some reason this made the third shadow, a woman, go, “Hell, yes. Come on, quickly, now. Before the cops get here.” 

The three of them turned around so quickly that Jim almost didn’t have time to hide. He managed, though, to crouch behind some trash bins, and the three shadows were so enthralled by this mysterious box that they didn’t glance his way. 

When they entered the street and were made visible, Jim gawked. He’d never seen people like them before. The larger man, with the box, had _purple_ hair. It was gelled into little spikes, and the smaller man had blond hair with stains of green in it. That was as much as Jim could see before they were gone, turning a corner, but this alone shocked him enough. 

Jim hurried to the dumpster. He needed to know what it was they’d been looking for. Why would people scavenge through a bunch of trash? And those people, they hadn’t looked poor, or at least not homeless... Not looking for food, then… Why was their hair so strange? 

He was able to gaze down in the dumpster by flipping a trash bin upside down and standing on top of it. Whatever it was the scavengers had come for, it was clear they’d gotten all of it. There weren’t any boxes left here, and no real garbage, either. Only plenty of discarded papers. Jim grabbed a bunch at random, hoping they’d at least give him some hint as to what the purple-haired man had retrieved. Then he jumped off the trashcan and left the alley. 

* * * * 

Richard kept his eyes closed and tried to stop his eyelids from fluttering, giving away that he was awake. There was a tickling at his lips, a warmth over his chest, and he knew that as soon as he opened his eyes it would go away. 

He didn’t open his eyes, but Carl pulled away anyway. 

“No fair, Richie!” Carl said, whispering so that Mummy and Dad wouldn’t know they were still awake. It was Friday night, and Mummy had let Carl sleep over. “You said that if I kissed you you’d wake up!” 

Richard still didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t, however, stop himself from smiling from ear to ear. “You-you have to ki-kiss me again!” 

He was Sleeping Beauty, and the only way he could wake up was if a prince kissed him. 

“But princes only kiss the princess _once,”_ Carl complained, but it was half-hearted. 

“You have t-to kiss me tw-twice,” Richard insisted, “or else I’m going ba-back to sleep.” 

Carl bent over Richard again. The warmth was back, and he pecked Richard’s lips once more. Richard giggled and – eyes finally opened – reached out, hugging Carl. 

“I’m awake,” he whispered. 

“Because I kissed you twice,” Carl said, and grinned. 

“You’re a good Pr-prince Charming,” Richard said. 

“I like being a prince.” Carl shuffled, so that he was resting on his side, facing Richard. Richard shifted, too, and they looked at one another in the dark. Mummy had gotten them sleeping bags so they could share the floor together. 

“Is that weird?” Carl whispered. 

* * * * 

Jim found the three dumpster divers in the cellar of an apartment building at the end of the next street. The cellar door had been open, emitting a dull light, and their hushed voices had travelled out of it. He’d gone in without invitation, stepping down damp and foul-smelling stairs, and it was a few moments before they noticed he was there. 

Immediately he discovered what had been in the box. His eyes widened and his heart began thumping in his chest. _Finally,_ something interesting had happened. For he’d been reading about them for ages, but he didn’t even think they existed in Ireland, and never imagined that in that box would be a – 

“Computer,” said the purple-haired man, “with all the parts.” 

“Looks brand new,” whistled the green-haired man. 

“That’s because it _is_ brand new, you dolt,” said the woman. “So why’d they throw it out?” 

The purple-haired man shrugged. “Cause it’s broken. Who cares. You can’t tell it’s shit just from looking at it, though. What do you think we can sell this for?” 

“Yeah,” said the woman. “What do you think we can sell this for, kid?” 

It took Jim a couple of seconds to notice that three faces were suddenly directed towards him, and the cellar had gone silent. His attention was utterly absorbed by the computer. From the outside, it just looked like a misshapen cube of plastic – and it was. An entirely expendably amalgam of plastics and metals, he knew. He’d read all about it. But what it could do – 

“Oi,” the woman said, and clapped her hands. “What are you doing down here, kid? Someone tell you this was _your_ cellar to squat?” 

Jim looked up. He still had the papers he’d stolen tucked under his arm. 

“That’s illegal,” Jim said. 

“What?” the woman asked. None of the adults moved, being both confused and underwhelmed by the sudden appearance of a child in their cellar. 

“You take broken tech parts from the dumpster of that company, Ireland Tech Co., and you sell them like they’re new. That’s illegal, though.” Ireland Tech Co. – when he’d read the name off the papers, he’d felt an annoying sense of recognition, without being able to say what it was he recognized. He'd _heard_ of them before – but from where? 

“No shit, wanker,” the woman retorted. 

“Wanker?” said the purple-haired man. “You think this shrimp knows what _wanking_ is? Oi, how old are you?” 

“Eleven,” Jim lied, because this sounded very big to him. The others seemed to believe him, but they still laughed. He curled his fists. “And what you’re doing is dumb. Everyone’s going to find out you sold them broken stuff, and they’re going to want their money back.” 

The purple-haired man shrugged. “They always figure us out eventually. We just let them release all their steam on one of us and move on to our next scheme. Freddie took the heat last time, right, Freddie?” Freddie was the blond-green one, and Jim noticed now that he had a faded bruise on his chin, and a scrape beneath his eye. “But if you keep bothering us, we’ll let them take it out on _you_ next time.” 

Jim rolled his eyes, although his heart was still pounding. A town with no church where people did illegal things on purpose. Where people didn’t necessarily go to sleep just because it was night. Where people foraged through dumpsters. This was _new._ “Or you can stop selling broken parts,” he said, “and start giving them the real thing. Then you’ll make money, and you’ll never have to stop.” 

The woman glared at him. “What are you talking about?” 

* * * * 

“Is what w-weird?” Richard asked. 

“I… I don’t know. Your dad got mad when we put on your mummy’s makeup,” Carl said. “Maybe he wouldn’t like you being a princess.” 

Richard shrugged. “Mummy wasn’t mad.” 

“My mummy would have been mad,” Carl said. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know,” he confessed. And added, “I like kissing you.” 

“I li-like it when you ki-kiss me!” Richard said, and Carl put a finger over Richard’s lips, because he’d started giggling and was getting too loud. Richard kept talking anyway, although he did lower the volume a bit. 

“I li-like it when you’re close. I li-like it when you say we-we’re friends. I love being your friend! When you’re close I fe-feel – I feel like there’s this…bi-big light inside my chest – like – like I’m warm. I don’t think my dad or-or your mummy would be mad if, if they knew that.” 

Richard leaned forward and gave Carl a kiss on the cheek. With Carl, Richard got to be or do anything he wanted. If he wanted to be a princess, Carl would let him. If he wanted a prince to kiss him, Carl would kiss him. If he wanted to wear makeup, Carl would put it on for him. 

Carl was Richard’s best friend, for always and ever. And Richard liked it that way. 

* * * * 

One Tuesday in early November, Jim didn’t come home from school. Mrs. Moriarty waited nervously. Richard was playing at Carl’s house, but he’d come home to tell her that. She hadn’t seen Jim since last night. She sat by the phone, watching the sun sink outside, and debated as to whether she should call her husband or the police. The latter seemed extreme – but was it? What could her husband do, but confirm that Jimmy was missing? Jimmy, her son – he was out there somewhere, and what if he needed help? God forbid someone had picked him up from school. He was so tiny, he could be so easily picked up and taken into a car – 

She’d begun dialing the police when the front door swung open. There was little Jimmy, utterly unharmed, and she dropped the phone with relief. 

Then came in two strangers. 

A bushy-haired woman and a man in a hat hauled in a box, and it was obvious that Jim, unlike her, wasn’t confused by their appearance. 

“My bedroom’s upstairs,” he said. “The second door to the left.” 

Mrs. Moriarty went to the foyer. 

“Hello…” she said, and the man in the hat grunted at her. The two strangers began to struggle with taking the box up the stairs. 

“Jimmy…?” she began. 

“They’re delivery people,” he said. “Carl’s dad got me a computer.” 

“Carl’s dad? Why would he…?” But it seemed that Jim was telling the truth, because she got a glimpse of the box. Sure enough, it read ‘Ireland Tech Co.’ across the side, which was the company Mr. Powers worked for. 

Mrs. Moriarty still didn’t understand. 

“What’s a…a…?” 

“Computer?” Jimmy asked. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“It’s a thing for little boys to play games on,” he said simply. 

“Oh,” she said, and smiled. “So you were playing at Carl’s house and his dad gave that to you?” 

She was so relieved she could cry. And, in fact, her eyes teared up. She smiled down at her son and tried to stroke his hair, but he swatted her away. “Did Richie say he’ll be home soon?” 

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Yeah, he’ll be home.” 

He raced up the stairs before she could hug him. 

* * * * 

With his computer, he didn’t even have to go to the town across the bridge anymore. Which was great, because he hated hanging out with the three squatters. They were adults, but still idiots. They broke the law on purpose, but that didn’t make them any more interesting than any of Jim’s teachers or Mummy. They’d never even thought, for instance, to look at any of the papers Ireland Tech Co. threw into their dumpster. Those papers were loaded with procedural information, important phone numbers, shipping addresses, and everything Jim needed to get Zed, the purple-haired man, to call Ireland Tech Co. and impersonate one of their own employees. He made a standard order of technological supplies and had it dropped off at a standard docking site, and then Zed, Freddie, and Meredith picked the supplies up and sold it. £5,000 made, just with a phone call. The number still made Jim’s head spin. _Then_ the stupid adults wanted to keep all of the money for themselves, but Jim convinced them that he had a bigger plans, plans that would make them even more money, and so, for now, they put half the money into Meredith’s bank account. 

Jim wished he didn’t need to work with them, but he couldn’t impersonate an adult on the phone, and so he needed Zed to make phone calls, and he needed Meredith’s bank account. And they’d saved four computers from the supplies they ordered, and kept those for themselves, so at least they didn’t have to see each other in person. Jim just messaged them everything. And even though they were all the way in the next town over, they got his messages instantly. That made Jim’s head spin, too. 

And now that he’d gotten them £5,000, they were mostly willing to listen to him. Freddie, for instance, was willing to call Mr. Powers himself and make an unusual request. 

Jim opened his messages, and read Freddie’s update. 

_Call went well. Powers thrilled to ship to London buyer. We paid £2,500 to have shipment sent to Conduit St address._

Freddie, of course, had no idea why they should pose as an imaginary London company and pay £2,500 to have technological goods shipped to an abandoned warehouse in London. And Jim, for his part, wasn’t entirely sure either. He only knew that he didn’t care about money, but adults seemed to care a lot. Zed, Meredith, and Freddie were just like any other adults he’d ever met, and now that he’d proven he could lead them to money, they were following him around to wherever he wanted to go. 

And if Mr. Powers thought there was money to be had in London, then… 

London was very, very far away. Too far for Carl to ever come over for play dates. 

* * * * 

Richard pressed his ear against the door. If he listened closely, and timed it perfectly – 

He swung the door open, laughing. 

\- he could open the door before Carl even had to ring the bell. 

He’d expected Carl to laugh with him, as he’d opened the door right when Carl had stepped on the welcome mat, but Carl didn’t laugh. 

“What’s wr-wrong?” Richard asked as Carl came into the house. Carl didn’t say anything. He closed the door and fell forward, wrapping his arms around Richard’s small frame. 

“C-C-C…” Richard couldn’t say it, he was too nervous. Something was bad. Very bad. 

Carl was crying. His chest heaved, and he was hugging too tightly for Richard to breathe properly, but Richard didn’t throw him off. Instead, he hugged Carl back, feeling furiously entrapped by his own mouth, by the way the nervous tug in his stomach made his tongue unable to work properly. 

Then Carl said, “I-I’m mo…moving,” and he sounded a bit like Richard, except he wasn’t stuttering, but speaking between gasps. And Richard, right then, couldn’t speak at all, so even though Carl wasn’t articulate right now, he still sounded better, stronger, than Richard. 

Usually ‘moving,’ in Richard’s town, meant moving a couple blocks down to be a little closer to the school or something. But if Carl was crying then he probably meant farther away, and farther away was precisely the opposite of where Richard wanted Carl to be. 

Richard hugged Carl tighter. He still couldn’t speak. 

“M-my dad…he…” Carl shook. “He said there’s a – a company that wants him to expand his business – in – in…in London.” 

He sobbed, and that was around the time when Mummy heard them and came out from the kitchen. And she hugged them both and tried to soothe them, but it couldn’t work, because the only way anyone could make things better was if Richard could go to London, too, but he couldn’t, of course he couldn’t, and so there was no one and nothing in the world that could make him feel okay. 

* * * * 

Carl hadn’t been allowed to sleep over because he was packing. And Richard couldn’t sleep, not just because he was in his bed and not on the floor with Carl, but because Jim was on his…his game thing, his computer, and the lights were out but its screen was glowing. Jim said he played games on it, but Richard wasn’t sure what kind. It never seemed like Jim was having any fun, but he was on it _all_ the time. 

Eventually, Jim turned around to face Richard. 

“You keep sniffling, Richie,” he said. “What’s wrong?” 

“You know what’s wrong!” Richard said, mostly because he still couldn’t say it out loud. _Carl was moving._ The words wouldn’t form in his mouth. 

Jim finally got away from his computer and made its screen go dark. He came over to Richard’s bed and sat on its edge. 

“That’s the problem with friends, Richie,” he said softly. In the dark, his voice was light and comforting. Richard could feel Jim’s back pressing against his leg, and Jim was warm. “Friends can move away and leave you. But you know who can’t?” 

“Who?” Richard asked. And maybe it was some kind of twin telepathy, but they moved in unison, then, with Jim laying down and Richard shifting to the side to make room for him. 

“Brothers,” Jim whispered. 

For the first time in months, they shared a bed together. Jim wasn’t as big as Carl – he wasn’t anything like Carl – but he was still warm and solid and _there,_ and Richard clung to him. 

“When Carl’s gone,” Jim said, and ignored the sound of Richard’s sniffling starting up again, “we can love each other just as much as we used to.” 

But Jim had it all wrong. Richard didn’t love Jim less just because he loved Carl, too. Richard saw clearly to the truth of things: Love for him was boundless. The older he got, it felt, the more he could love, so that his affection for both Jim and Carl was constantly growing exponentially to immeasurable heights. 

But, being small and sad and with his tongue trapped in his mouth again, he didn’t know how to word that to Jim. Instead, he gave his brother’s cheek a kiss and closed his eyes, wondering how in the world he was supposed to walk to the bus stop in the morning without Carl by his side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this make any sense? If it doesn't, leave a comment, and I'll try to rewrite stuff and make it better.
> 
> Because I've been wondering ever since The Great Game, _Why would a character who apparently grew up in Ireland have killed a kid who swam in a pool in London?_ and yeah now you'll see why ~~~
> 
> I moved to Paris, which is why it took me so long to update this. I'm settled now, so hopefully my updates will be more frequent. 
> 
> Sorry for typos. Thank you for reading.


	17. The Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for child abuse, physical abuse, lots of incest, brief memories of non-con. 
> 
> Also, the scene at the dinner table was very, very much inspired by Hilary Mantel's _A Place of Greater Safety._

Almost Christmas, but it wasn’t snowing. Raining. A faculty member held a large umbrella over their heads as Severin and Sebastian waited for one of Father’s cars to pick them up. Severin was perfectly still, but Sebastian kept tightening and loosening his tie, tugging at his sleeves, picking off imaginary linen from his waistcoat. 

“Nervous about something, Seb?” Severin asked. 

“Of course not, brother. I am eager as ever to spend our holiday in Father’s home. We have two weeks of quality son-and-father bonding time ahead of us. It is, naturally, to be cherished,” Sebastian said brightly. The faculty member behind them couldn’t see the way Sebastian’s eyes flashed, the way he snarled. So he smiled approvingly at Sebastian’s chirpy tone, and wished them a merry Christmas once one of Father’s driver’s arrived, opening the backseat door for them. 

Severin felt a tug of sympathy for his brother. He could feel Sebastian’s nerves almost as if they were his own; call it a twin thing. Right now, he knew, Sebastian felt on the verge of vomiting. 

As for himself, he felt fine. At ease. Seeing Ambassador Moran would be distasteful, of course, but hopefully he’d gotten them something good for Christmas. And every second that wasn’t spent under the old man’s nose could be spent…

“Looking for something, brother?” Sebastian asked. The car had driven down the driveway and was making its way onto the road. 

Severin became aware of himself. His eyes had been directed towards Sebastian’s trousers. He looked straight and up, clearing his throat. 

He shouldn’t say anything. He shouldn’t. There was no reason to think… Sebastian had changed his mind so many times before. Certainly he’d been eager enough a few weeks ago, when he finally admitted Severin was his brother, had finally fucked him again. But he could feel differently, now. And it’d been a whimsical conversation, to say the least. 

_You’ll be my slave for two whole weeks, Sev. Ready to obey my every word?_ It’d been said in passing. But it had occupied Severin’s classroom and nighttime fantasies as Christmas break drew nearer, even though Sebastian had probably forgotten he’d said it. 

Severin cleared his throat. 

“You…said something about Christmas break,” Severin said. 

Sebastian shoved his elbow into Severin’s arm. Severin hit back, but before his hand could make contact, Sebastian grabbed his wrist and forced his arm to his side. 

Glancing forward briefly to make sure the privacy window of the car was up, Sebastian grabbed a handful of Severin’s hair with his free hand and loomed over Sev as tears stung Severin’s eyes. 

“Strange, brother.” 

“Sorry?” Severin said. 

“We just drove off of Eton grounds, but you’re still in your school uniform. Eager to go back to class?” 

“Still in my…?” Severin blinked, eyeing Sebastian’s waistcoat and tie. “What are you talking about? So are you.” 

“I don’t remember giving you permission to ask me questions,” Sebastian snapped. 

Severin gaped, confused. 

“Look at you. What a weak-willed little _bitch_ you are. Should I rip off your clothes, or can you get undressed yourself?” Sebastian’s fingernails dug into Severin’s scalp, and the sharp, resulting pain sent Severin’s blood rushing. 

“I – I can…” Severin’s shaking fingers reached for his tie, unknotting it. Sebastian could rip off different clothes later – if one of his uniforms tore, Ambassador Moran would kill him. 

“Faster,” Sebastian demanded. “You have thirty seconds before you get choked on my cock.” 

Severin thought he meant that he had to strip in thirty seconds or less, _or else_ he’d get choked on Sebastian’s cock. In fact Sebastian meant that, regardless of his particular state of undress, he’d be choking on cock in half a minute. 

He managed to rid himself of the upper portions of his attire – tie, waistcoat, shirt, undershirt – while Sebastian unzipped his trousers just enough to pull himself out. 

Severin was grabbed so quickly and forcefully that his mouth opened automatically for a shout – only to be silenced by Sebastian’s cock. It was shoved down his throat, making him gag. He immediately needed oxygen; he’d exhaled right before Sebastian gagged him. But Sebastian kept him lodged on his cock for several seconds too long before pulling him back up. 

He was permitted to catch his breath, Sebastian’s firm hand in his hair the entire time, serving as a warning. Don’t speak, don’t think. Just breathe, and – 

He supposed Sebastian was making it easy for him. This wasn’t really a blowjob. Sebastian thrust into Severin’s mouth, doing all the work for him, keeping Severin still as Severin felt the tip of his cock pounding against his throat. It hurt, he could feel blood welling up in his throat, stinging inside him. And he needed air, he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were closing, he felt his body slacken, but still Sebastian didn’t let go. Everything was melting grey. 

* * * * 

There was a bump in the road. Severin stirred. His eyelids flickered and he came to so gradually that Sebastian considered slapping him awake. Possibly that wasn’t what he needed. 

Severin looked up at him, head resting on his lap. Sebastian petted his fingers through Severin’s hair; he could see where Severin’s scalp was sore and red. 

Severin moaned. The moan came out as a rasp, and turned into a cough. Sebastian pulled a handkerchief from him pocket, collecting the dribbles of blood as Severin spewed them. There wasn’t any come, though. That was deep inside him now. 

Sebastian smiled. 

“Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty,” he said. 

Severin said something undistinguishable. 

“What was that?” Sebastian asked. 

“Sick…” He coughed. “You’re sick.” 

Sebastian had thought that was established months ago. Maybe years ago, before Eton, maybe the first time he’d ever glanced at Severin and thought he saw something he liked. But this time he hadn’t meant to be intentionally twisted. 

“You never told me you didn’t want to pass out,” Sebastian said. 

Severin grinned. 

Sebastian continued, “And even if you did, I might not believe you, seeing as you clearly liked it.” 

“Liked..?” 

Sebastian stroked Severin’s cock, hard and defined beneath his trousers. Severin bit his lip. 

“Nasty slut,” Sebastian said. “And besides, I was only doing you a favor.” 

Severin closed his eyes as Sebastian continued to stroke his hair. Sebastian said, “We can’t get come all over Father’s upholster, Sev. So I came so far down your throat you didn’t have to worry about making any kind of mess.” 

“I see,” Severin croaked. “Thanks for the…consideration.” 

“And I thought about stopping to let you breathe,” Sebastian said honestly. “But then I just thought that if I fucked harder, I’d come faster, and you’d be able to breathe sooner. So I fucked even harder for your sake, brother.” 

“For my sake.” Severin was smiling with his eyes closed, and Sebastian knew he must be torn between the desire to sleep and the desire to get off. No need to leave such a hard decision all up to him, though. Not when big brother could make it for him. 

“Feeling antsy, Sev?” Sebastian asked, giving another stroke through Severin’s trousers. Severin’s eyes shot open. 

“Just a bit,” he said roughly. He reached for his belt, but Sebastian slapped his hands away. 

“Eager, too, I imagine,” Sebastian said. 

“Hm?” 

“To be my slave for all of Christmas break. That _is_ what you want, isn’t it?” Sebastian asked. 

Severin shrugged from Sebastian’s lap, but the little git’s lips were twitching into a smile. In an exaggeratedly disinterested tone he said, “If it’s on the agenda, I suppose.” 

“Oh, no, Sev,” Sebastian said innocently. “It’s only on the agenda if _you_ want it to be.” 

“Well, it doesn’t much matter to me, so…” Severin said. He sat up, rubbing at his throat. His poor, bulging cock looked so neglected. 

Several minutes of silence passed before Severin began to put on his clothes, tucking in his shirt. Sebastian said nothing. After several more minutes, Severin reached for his belt again, apparently unable to ignore his cock any longer. 

“Don’t do that, Severin,” Sebastian said, wrinkling his nose in mock-distaste. “It’s really not polite to masturbate in one of Father’s cars.” 

Sebastian stifled a laugh as Severin’s hand stopped automatically. He was so used to doing everything Sebastian wanted. Did he even see it? Did he see how fucking owned he was? 

Then Severin continued to undo his belt, saying, “If you’re not my master, Sebastian, I really see no reason why I should listen to you.” 

His belt fell to the car floor and he unzipped his trousers. Sebastian lodged forward and grabbed Severin’s hands away from his cock, pinning his wrists together. He said, calmly, “I’m asking you not to do that, Severin.” 

Severin tried to jerk his hands away from Sebastian, but Sebastian held on tight. “But you see, Seb,” Severin said, “since you haven’t made me your slave, I think I’m entitled to go on and do as I please.” 

“No, you aren’t,” Sebastian said flatly. “It sounds to me, Severin, like you’re just too passive to even ask to be my slave. It sounds to me like you’re just waiting for _me_ to _make_ you my slave. It sounds to me like you need me to do all the hard work. And it really sounds, Severin, like you’d be my slave regardless of what either of us say about it, because you are very, very eager for me to tell you what to do.” 

He released Severin’s wrists only to grab at him, forcing him clumsily onto Sebastian’s lap. He spread his own legs and forced Severin between his thighs. He growled into his ear: “All you need to do is ask for it, Sev, and I’ll let you come. No – I’ll _make_ you come. My hands will be all over you. Isn’t that what you want?” 

Severin’s eyes were closed. He was breathing deeply, likely in an attempt to keep calm, keep clear-headed. Sebastian wrapped an arm around Severin’s neck, pushing against his throat. 

“Isn’t that what you want?” he asked again, tightening his hold before releasing him completely. 

Severin swallowed. The answer came slowly and softly: “Yes, please.” 

“Yes, please, what?” 

“Yes, please, I want your hands on me.” 

“Why do you want my hands on you?” 

“Because I’m yours.” 

“My what?” 

“Your slave.” 

“Excuse me?” Sebastian smiled at himself. His tone mimicked Father’s, so Severin would know what he was asking for. 

“I’m your slave, _Master,”_ Severin said. 

“That’s right. But you know, Severin, it sounds to me like you were _lying_ earlier. You said it didn’t much matter if you got to be my slave or not. But that’s not true, is it?” 

“No, Master.” 

“So you _were_ lying earlier?” 

“Yes, master,” Severin said. “I’m sorry, Master.” 

Sebastian suppressed a snort. He had no idea, frankly, how he could be related to the little, submissive bitch that was Severin Moran. He continued. 

“Liars don’t deserve much, do they, slave?” 

He grinned as Severin responded, truly sounding bent out about it, “Liars deserve nothing, Master.” 

“But lucky for you, I’m a very merciful master.” He reached into Severin’s pants, taking ahold of his cock. Severin yelped like a girl. “So I’m going to let you come in your pants. Your come will stain through your trousers and you’ll look like an unkempt whore, but that’s more than you deserve, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,” Severin said. 

Sebastian dropped his authoritative, stern tone for a moment and commented honestly, “You’re so good at being a little bitch, Sevvy.” 

“Mmm…” Severin was beginning to squirm as Sebastian’s fingers teased his tip. Sebastian didn’t have much room to move around in Severin’s pants, however, and he wasn’t exactly one for finesse, so he began quite suddenly with fast, rough strokes. He released a descriptive stream of thought into Severin’s ear: “Look at you, so riled up over a handjob in a car. You’re like a virgin, you’re a girl who’s never had a finger up her cunt before.” 

Severin was undone far too soon – embarrassingly soon. He was too wound up and Sebastian was too forceful, too rough. Sebastian smiled as Severin came. 

He let Severin bite his free hand in order to stay quiet, not wanting the driver to hear his moans. Severin collapsed against Sebastian, adjusting so he could rest his head on Sebastian’s shoulder. 

Sebastian pulled his hand from Severin’s pants; it was warm with Severin’s come. There was already a small pool of soaked-through come staining his trousers, so Sebastian rubbed the come from his hand over the pool. He then shoved his fingers in Severin’s mouth, making sure he licked off anything excess. 

Severin’s head was lolling on Sebastian’s shoulder. He was panting, eyes closed. Undone. Exhausted. Humiliated whore. 

When Severin finally opened his eyes again, he was smiling. Sebastian didn’t think he noticed the way he was unconsciously making himself smaller, resting his head on Sebastian’s shoulder and looking up at Sebastian with fucking stars in his eyes. 

Humiliation was gratifying for Severin. Sebastian didn’t understand it, but he liked it. He liked the way Severin was looking at him right now, hair disheveled and wet with perspiration, trousers ruined, a small smile on his lips. Eyes wide with adoration. 

Like Sebastian owned him. 

* * * * 

“Severin… You’ve got a little something…” Sebastian reached out and pulled Severin’s tie out from beneath his jacket, using it to wipe his chin and lips of come. 

It didn’t help much. Severin’s eyes were unfocused, his breathing unsteady. Sebastian had tried an experiment, to see if Severin could come from nipple-rubbing and the sight of Sebastian coming on his face alone. Apparently, he could. Severin’s trousers were looking worse than ever and, in a splendid example of bad timing, the car suddenly stopped, at the end of the long driveway leading to the Moran manor. 

“Quick, fix your hair,” Sebastian said, and Severin scrambled to flatten it. He fumbled with his collared shirt, ignoring his undershirt, which Sebastian shoved into his schoolbag – no time to put it on. Sebastian then took out a sports drink. He splashed Severin’s trousers with it, covering his come stain. Just as he was putting the bottle back in the bag, the driver opened the passenger door. 

He waited for the boys to exit without a word, giving no sign as to whether or not he had any suspicions. He didn’t so much as glance at Severin’s wet trousers before taking their bags and trotting to the manor. 

“Father’s going to kill me,” Severin said, looking down at his trousers. “I should say you spilled it.” 

“Better tell him you pissed yourself instead,” Sebastian growled. Their holiday would be in fucking ruins in Sebastian pissed Father off. 

When they got through their front door, they waited by the entrance, checking each other’s posture to make sure they looked like Father’s perfect soldiers. They must have stood for nearly five minutes, waiting for him to come meet them, before Sebastian hissed, “That fucker forgot we were coming today.” 

“I wonder if he’ll lose it if we go upstairs without talking to him first,” Severin said. 

“I wonder if he’ll lose it if we fuck each other before saying hello,” Sebastian said. Severin laughed, and Sebastian added, “‘But, sir, it’s for a school project!’”, imitating the innocent tone Severin adopted every time he addressed Father. 

Severin chuckled again, although Sebastian suspected he didn’t realize he was being imitated. 

Their laughter came to an halt when they heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps were too light and quick to be Father’s, but both boys returned to their stiff-backed positions anyway. 

They were acknowledged by one of the maids, Mrs. Getley, whom they’d known since they were children. “Welcome home, boys. Dinner will be at six, and your bags are already upstairs.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Getley,” said Severin. “Do you know where our father is?” 

Mrs. Getley blinked. “Weren’t you told? Ambassador Moran’s at work.” 

‘At work’ met that he was in Iran, negotiating or compromising or whatever the fuck it was that he did. Pretty hard to imagine him compromising on anything, but supposedly that was his job. 

“When will he return?” Severin asked. 

Mrs. Getley smiled gently, misinterpreting their taken aback expressions. “He’ll be gone until January, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be spending Christmas alone. Your family will be here soon enough.” 

Sebastian’s lip twitched, but he managed to say, very calmly, “Thank you, Mrs. Getley. We’ll be upstairs.” 

They made their way calmly up. 

* * * *

Sebastian felt weightless. Like he was nearly floating, on the edge of leaving his body. The manor usually felt like it was stuffed, cramped, each room clogged with the idea that somewhere in the house lurked Father. 

He wasn’t here. 

They had over a dozen servants but Sebastian felt beautifully alone, unwatched. Safe.

“So.” Severin broke into his thoughts. Sebastian hadn’t noticed him stripping in the corner of the bedroom, couldn’t remember coming into the bedroom. He himself was sitting on the bed. When had he decided to sit on the bed? “Father’s gone.” 

Severin’s voice was too light, too careless. He obviously didn’t understand what that meant. Not what it meant for Sebastian, at least. If Sebastian were less guarded he would have cried out in sheer relief. 

As it was, he felt exhausted. Weightless one moment and tired the next. Not heavy, anymore, just… Like he could use a rest. Months’ worth of built-up stress had just deflated. 

“Get out,” Sebastian said. 

“Sorry?” Severin was pulling down his pants. 

“I’m taking a nap.” Sebastian turned on his side, back facing his brother. 

“A nap,” Severin repeated dully. 

Sebastian couldn’t be bothered to answer him. Father was gone, they didn’t have to dine with him tonight, and in moments Sebastian was asleep. 

* * * *

It wasn’t until the weekend passed and Monday the 23rd came that Sebastian got out of bed. Severin had checked in on him each afternoon and night, and he’d always been in a deep sleep. Very abruptly that morning, however, he entered Severin’s bedroom. 

“Get up,” he said, yanking the blankets off him. The sun hadn’t fully risen. 

“Seb?” Severin blinked blearily. 

“That’s Master to you. And I said get up. It’s breakfast time and I’m famished.” 

Sebastian ended up eating like he was, indeed, famished. Neither boy commented on Sebastian’s somnolent hiatus, but Severin noticed what he hadn’t noticed before: there’d been circles under Sebastian’s eyes, which must have been there so long that Severin hadn’t realized they were there.

They were gone now. 

* * * *

“Mm…” Severin knew he was going to be hurting by the end of the night, because Sebastian never started him off slow like this. He had never just kissed…just…

“Oh,” Severin breathed. They exchanged breaths, the air between them hot, their kisses simmering. The sun was setting, glowing dully through Sebastian’s windows. Sebastian’s hand was in his hair, not pulling, just there, and Sebastian was leaning towards him again. 

He closed his eyes just as there was a knock on the door. 

They jumped apart so quickly that Severin landed on the floor. Sebastian cracked up and, moment ruined, said, “Come in!” 

A butler Severin didn’t recognize said, “Your aunt and uncle will be arriving in twenty minutes. Your father has given instructions that you meet them at the gates.” 

When the butler left, Sebastian swore. 

“Why are they coming tonight?” Severin asked. Christmas must be weeks away. 

“Because it’s Christmas Eve,” said Sebastian, rising from the bed. Shirtless and languorous, he was slow to reach his closet and choose a collared shirt. 

“Without Father here, you know,” Severin said, “we’re the masters of the house.” 

“Yes.” Sebastian snorted. “So we’ll be good, little hosts for Uncle Severin and Aunt Genevieve and our cousins.” 

* * * *

When Uncle Severin met Severin at the gate, Sebastian watched as Uncle Severin clapped Sev roughly on the back. 

“It’s good to see you, my boy!” he said, releasing a hearty laugh from his barrel chest. His thin black mustache quivered with each chuckle. “Your father sent me your Christmas presents, they’re in the trunk. AUGUSTA, GET THE PACKAGES!” He released Severin, finally, and turned to Sebastian. Sebastian received a handshake. 

“Sebastian,” he said. “Tempestuous as ever, I hear. Your father’s been telling me about the ruckus you get up to in school.” 

Sebastian hadn’t gotten into a single fistfight all year. They hadn’t threatened to expel him even once. No complaints at all, as far as he knew. Regardless, he held his tongue. 

“We’ll have a talk after dinner,” Uncle Severin promised. He gave a wink to Severin and went back to the car. 

“He still hates me,” Sebastian grumbled. 

“Shut up, Seb,” Severin said. “He thinks he’s helping.” 

Their uncle loved Severin – nauseatingly so. Their Father had always favored cousin Augusta, too. Sebastian suspected it had something to do with names. He’d been named after his great-great-grandfather, who had died before he was born. 

* * * *

There were forty-eight guests to their Christmas dinner, precisely. Every invitee attended: ambassadors and their families, politicians, granters of favors and certain celebrities. Uncle Severin took their father’s place at the head of the table, and Severin sat on his uncle’s right side, Sebastian on the left. Aunt Genevieve was next to Sebastian; Augusta was next to Severin, her younger sister beside her. Augusta’s head was ducked as if she were already preying, but Aunt Genevieve shot her a nasty look. 

A potent perfume surrounded her like a fruity aura. She bit her lip and pressed her hand unnecessarily on Sebastian’s shoulder. She said quietly, so the guests would not hear, “Dearest, would you get my daughter’s attention?” 

Sebastian had no idea how he was supposed to do that; guests were quieting down, Uncle Severin was about to begin the prayer. 

“Augusta,” he whispered. He could tell from the twitch of her eyebrow that she’d heard him. 

“Augusta,” he hissed. 

Her younger sister, Brigitte, jabbed Augusta. Augusta looked up. 

“What?” she said, much too loudly. 

Brigitte nudged her head toward Aunt Genevieve. 

“Oh, mother, don’t be dull,” Augusta sighed, still so loud that guests could hear. 

“Put it away,” Aunt Genevieve hissed. 

“You couldn’t possibly understand how important this is.” 

“Not at the table,” she hissed. 

“What is it?” Sebastian asked. 

Aunt Genevieve still had her hand on his shoulder. “I haven’t the faintest,” she said. “But she won’t stop using it. Ever since she went to Cambridge… Do you plan to go to Cambridge, dear?” 

“Oxford,” Sebastian said. “Like Father and Uncle Severin.” 

“That’s right,” Aunt Genevieve said. She gave him a pat on the head, stroked her hand through his hair. “Cambridge is no good. I should have known.” 

Augusta glared at her from across the table. 

* * * * 

**3:05 P.M.:** _She’s wearing her ghastly perfume again. Smells like maraschino cherries. ___

**3:05 P.M.** _How very Freudian of her._

Augusta put her hand in front of her month, swallowing down a laugh. She could practically hear his sneer through the phone. If only he were here. 

**3:06 P.M.** _She must be so disappointed Ambassador Moran isn’t present. She probably packed that perfume just for him._

She glanced up; something of potential interest had commenced. Severin was asking her father questions. 

Oh. Only inquiring as to the current state of Britain’s finances. She pitied her father; being Chancellor must be unbearably dull. But, then, if you yourself are unbearably dull…

Severin’s queries persisted past the typical time when most people grew too groggy to care. Her father, at the head of the table, continued his stories with alacrity. Severin broke in with his gentle voice, to ask that he elaborate, provide his sources. He didn’t understand one small thing. Paper and pen was demanded, but no, a calculator wouldn’t be needed. Her father pushed aside his plates. Oh, good God, when he wrote his nose practically touched the paper. 

The guests around them began to notice; still Severin was speaking. He did not fully comprehend, if his uncle could elaborate…

“Of course, dear boy, of course. Such curiosity!” He scribbled frantically. Severin watched in calm silence. Augusta’s mobile – one of the first in Britain, in the world, to be able to send and receive SMSs – buzzed on her lap, but she ignored it. 

“But how did you arrive at your original figures?” Severin was asking. His beastly brother – funny, how they should be the same and yet remarkably dissimilar – was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “If I could just understand…”

“Naturally, naturally.” More scribbling. Then – 

“Not on the table!” That was mother. 

The pen had trailed past the paper, blotting wood. Her father cleared his throat. 

“More paper, Master Moran?” That was a maid; her offer was declined with a wave of the hand. 

“Unnecessary,” said her father. He looked up and down the table, thrust back his chair, rose. The guests paused their polite conversation to look up. They must have expected some announcement. 

Mother, hissing: “Restrain yourself, Severin!” 

Severin, the younger: “If you wouldn’t mind, I can’t quite grasp it...” 

Father: “I must teach him, dear. I’m sure he’s not the only one here to misunderstand. A demonstration, ah…”

He crossed the room, the other end of the long table finally noticing. He leaned across the table, over a guest, and grabbed a platter. 

“Severin!” Mother was calling out now. Oh, but this _was_ interesting. “Sit down, please!” 

“Only getting the turkey,” he said, as if this were natural. He reached out and grabbed a greasy turkey leg with his bare hand. He held it in the air as the guests gawked. The room was now near-silent. 

“This is a meat, we can agree, but we must note how it is different from the ham, yes?” 

Well, cousin Severin said, and but. Something about fiscal policy and poultry. 

“Yes, yes, but if you could allow, for a moment, for the turkey to represent the minister’s secretary. And let us say the ham is…”

Yes, cousin Severin agreed, but could he extrapolate, could he define, could he clarify. Her father’s face was shining beneath the chandeliers. A guest was chuckling beside her. Her father was still holding the turkey leg in his hand, juice dripping down his fist, even as Severin directed him away from that example, making the meat he held irrelevant. Someone was whispering; Augusta heard the word ‘fool,’ she heard the word ‘puppet.’ 

The room was getting hot by now. It was all the candles, it was her father’s rampant dancing, the way he twirled as Severin orchestrated him, a flick of the wrist here, a flash of a soft smile there. She found her father dull but he was still her father, and his foolishness was associated with her. 

And with cousin Severin, too, they were all Morans, after all. What was the purpose of this humiliation…?

Her mobile buzzed again. She looked down. He had texted: 

**3:12 P.M.** _How old are your cousins?_

Considering their current conversation the question seemed random. She looked up. 

Her mother’s lipstick was red; it glimmered in the candlelight. Her cheeks, too, were reddened, with a mix of embarrassment, undoubtedly, but also… Her pupils had dilated, blown wide and black, and there was the pink of her skin, not merely a blush: it swept up to her ears, flushed down her neck… She was looking across at cousin Severin as her tongue swept over her bottom lip. 

Her husband, dominated. The older Severin was still speaking, although a maid had mercifully carried his turkey leg away. Her mother’s perfume still wafted across the wide table, still smelled like cherries. The SMS made sudden sense. 

Mycroft always knew. 

She wrote back: 

**3:13 P.M.** _I don’t think it matters._

* * * *

Christmas day and everyone watched as the Moran twins, picture-perfect sons of Ambassador August Moran, opened their gifts. 

Severin had unboxed their uncle’s leather bound edition of all seven volumes of _À la recherche du temps perdu._ The girls and women watching had practically swooned when they saw Severin stroke his fingers over the books’ spines, feeling the golden letters. Severin looked like a prat, eyes gone soft for his little books. No one, Sebastian supposed, suspected that Severin’s eyes got just like that when he looked at his own brother. 

For Sebastian, Uncle Severin had gotten some rubbish books on ‘emotional intelligence’ and ‘good communication.’ 

“For when you’re an ambassador like your father, Seb,” said his uncle, voice thick with feigned fondness. Everyone smiled stupidly, but Sebastian knew it had nothing to do with his uncle’s nonexistent expectations for Sebastian’s grand future career. 

Severin got French literature and Sebastian got a handbook for the emotionally retarded. 

Then Father’s gifts. Severin and Sebastian’s boxes were identical; they usually got the same thing, or nearly. 

Someone wolf-whistled when Severin opened his. 

“That’s a Remington 700,” his uncle said appreciatively. “Perfect for taking out the deer out back. And for you, Sebastian?” 

Severin’s gun was sleek and black: a police-grade Remington 700 _P_ , to be exact. Not intended for normal citizens – but, well, Ambassador Moran wasn’t a normal citizen, and his beloved son surely deserved a gun that had a more professional look. 

For Sebastian: The Remington 700 _SPS._ For civilians. For _young_ civilians. It was a light-weight gun, four inches sliced off the barrel. Meant for boys who hadn’t quite bulked up yet. 

Meant for boys. 

His brother and he were fucking identical. And Sebastian wasn’t _weak._ His father had written him a lovely note, it read: _If you keep your grades up, perhaps you’ll get Severin’s gun next year._ Not ‘if you bring them up.’ ‘If you keep them up.’ His grades were already fucking perfect, what more did the man want? His hands shook. 

He looked up. Most of the people in the room spent their days in offices, courtrooms, and meeting rooms. They didn’t notice the difference in the guns. Severin did, though, and he was badly suppressing a laugh. Augusta and Brigitte, both his cousins, were laughing at him, too. They knew. 

His fucking hands. 

He got up, swallowing. He looked around the room. 

“Thank you very much, Uncle Severin.” Bastard, bastard, bastard. “A fond thank you to my father, of course.” Bastard, _bastard._ “And a merry Christmas to you all. Please excuse me.” 

He bowed his head and ducked out of the room. 

* * * * 

Just a few minutes later, there was a knock on the bedroom door. Before Sebastian could even fully open it, Severin entered and kicked the door closed, grabbed him, and kissed him. 

The kiss was hard, their teeth clashing at first. He was being pushed against a wall. No – he took Severin by the shoulders and spun him around, pushing _him_ against the wall, lips never coming apart. Much better. 

“I need you,” Severin gasped. Sebastian had no doubt that he’d come up simply to distract Sebastian, keep him from his anger, and Sebastian appreciated that. 

Sebastian reached for Severin’s tie, pulling. They worked to undress without separating, continuing the kiss even as buttons slipped from their holes, waistcoats fell to the ground. 

There was a light, fluttering, female laugh. It was pretentious, too sure of everything in the world to show surprise at two brothers kissing. Sebastian knew it was Augusta before the kiss even broke. 

Brigitte, the younger, was poking her head out from behind her sister. Her eyes were wide. 

“Couldn’t make it through the holiday season without keeping your hands off each other?” 

Augusta was wearing a pastel pink dress that went down to the floor. It was a little girl’s dress, even though she was eighteen and in her first year of college. Given to her by Ambassador Moran. It fit her well, a big ribbon tight around her waist, but it looked _wrong_ on her, all of its girlish idealism at odds with her sardonic, sophisticated air. 

“How did you know?” Sebastian asked, more curious than frightened. Neither sister looked like they were racing to tell anyone. 

“Little things. Here and there. Impossible to miss, really,” Augusta said lightly. She entered the room and told Brigitte to close the door. 

“Everyone else has missed it, though.” She sighed. “Everyone else misses everything.” 

“Why’d you come up here, if you already knew?” Severin asked. His hands were still on Sebastian’s belt buckle, as if he hadn’t given up hope that they could continue with their fun. 

“Brigitte wanted to see.” Augusta shrugged. 

Brigitte went pink. “I just – I didn’t believe – ” 

“I wanted to engage,” Augusta interrupted. 

Severin blinked. “Sorry, cousin?” 

“No need,” Augusta said. With a quick movement she unfurled the ribbon around her waist, unzipped the back of her dress, and stepped out of it. She was nude underneath. 

She was a Moran, with toned muscles and an athletic build. Her breasts moved beautifully as she breathed, full and real. She seemed taller naked; Sebastian hadn’t realized before, but she was the same height as him. 

Brigitte kept her eyes carefully off her sister, although she didn’t seem fazed by Augusta’s sudden nudity. Sebastian could imagine her enduring the numerous occasions during which Augusta thought it suitable to strip herself, and felt an unexpected sympathy. He actually blinked, surprised at himself. 

Brigitte wasn’t saying anything – she had always been unbearably shy – but her eyes were on her cousins. Severin’s eyes were on Augusta, his hands leaving Sebastian’s belt, sinking to his sides. 

“Tell me how beautiful I am,” Augusta said. Her posture was perfect beneath her cousins’ scrutiny. 

Sebastian nearly choked with laughter, but Severin said, faintly, “I think you’re exceptional.” 

“Yes, obviously,” Augusta said, flicking her hair out of her face as a horse flinches away a fly. 

Oh. Sebastian saw it. Dynamics, already pushing things into their place. He stood straighter, turning away from his brother at last. 

“I’m Severin’s Master,” he said boldly. “He does everything I tell him to.” 

The slightest part of her lips, then they were quickly closed again. The only sign Augusta gave that she was surprised. She said, “Everything?” 

“Within limits,” Sebastian said carefully. Severin’s turn, now, to look surprised. 

“What limits?” Severin asked. 

“Well, I would like to tell you to let Augusta have you. Right now. On my bed. But if you don’t want to, then I won’t tell you to,” Sebastian said. 

Severin was making himself small again, did he notice when he did that? He was looking up at Sebastian, somehow planting himself against the wall. He said slowly, “I would…I would like you…to – ” 

Augusta pushed Sebastian back, grabbed at Severin’s shoulders. 

“He wants to, let’s get on with it,” she said. Sebastian grabbed her, pulled her away from his brother. 

“Let him say it,” he said. 

“What does it matter?” she growled, impatient as always. 

What mattered was that Augusta was a girl, and Severin hadn’t been with one in some time. What mattered was that a party gone wrong hung between Sebastian and his brother, and Sebastian was going to make this one right. 

“I want you, Augusta,” Severin said. He added, “Please.” 

Sebastian let go of her. 

She was like a tiger, all fast movements and claws. Sebastian wasn’t sure how she maneuvered Severin onto the bed, onto his back, how she straddled him and pushed his arms above his head, but she did. 

She yanked Severin forward, her blonde hair cascading over them like a curtain, concealing the sight of their lips meeting. Severin brushed her hair behind her shoulder and cupped her cheek, keeping her close. 

A low sound emitted from someone’s throat. At first Sebastian thought it was from himself, but he didn’t make sounds like that. Then he remembered Brigitte. 

“You like watching?” he asked. She jumped as if he’d snuck up on her. 

“Severin is…beautiful,” she said breathlessly. 

“And Augusta?” 

Her little nose wrinkled like a rabbit’s. “Mother thought she was a lesbian because she’s so big-boned. That was before Mycroft, of course. Not that they – not that they…” Her nervous voice quivered off, which was just as well. Sebastian wasn’t sure what she was talking about. 

“I think Severin’s beautiful, too,” Sebastian said. He took a step toward Brigitte; she backed away. 

She had to crane her neck up to look at his face. She said, swallowing, “Y-yes. But he’s too…too big.” 

“You think?” Sebastian was trying to make his voice gentle, the way Severin’s could go. 

“Scary,” she said faintly. 

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think Severin knows how to be very gentle, actually.” 

“Does he?” she asked. Her voice was so soft and light that each word sounded like a little squeak. 

“Especially with people smaller than him. Especially with young ladies. You’re fifteen, aren’t you, Brigitte?” he asked. 

“Uh-huh,” Brigitte said. He was closer to her, now, close enough to touch. She didn’t move. 

“Not a girl, anymore. Have you ever…?”

Her widened eyes was all the answer he needed. He proceeded, “Would you like to?” 

“I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brigitte said. 

“Of course you don’t.” He smiled, before remembering that his smile tended to scare people. “Would you like me to show you?” 

* * * *

“Am I the oldest you’ve ever been with?” Augusta whispered in Severin’s ear. Severin wasn’t sure how she’d made it happen, but his trousers and pants had been kicked off. He could feel her wetness grinding on his, just above his groin. He was aware that he was panting, but he couldn’t move beneath her weight, couldn’t see much besides her hair, which had once again swept over her face. 

“Eighteen?” he asked. “No, not nearly.” 

She laughed and smacked him playfully. “How very not dull you are, Severin.” She grimaced. “Oh, no. I can’t do that. That’s just gross.” It took a moment before he remembered that her father had the same name. “What is it Sebastian calls you? Your ‘Master?’” She rolled her eyes. 

“Slave,” he said. “Or slut.” 

She smacked him again, less playfully. “Don’t use that word, slave. You don’t know what it means.” 

“Are you going to fuck me?” he groaned. Before she slapped his cheek raw. 

“In due time,” she said, but already she was lowering herself onto him. He was freed from her blanket of hair and breathed, watching. He groaned as he felt her tight around him. 

* * * *

Severin’s voice distracted them both. No words, just a helpless whimper. Brigitte bit her thin bottom lip. She glanced over Sebastian’s shoulder. 

“They’ve taken up the bed,” she said. 

“I have a perfectly comfortable chair,” Sebastian said. A light hand on her shoulder guided her there. It was a red, overstuffed armchair; Brigitte looked at Sebastian once before sitting down. 

But as soon as she sat she said, “I don’t want to take off my dress.” 

“You don’t have to,” Sebastian said. He got on his knees so that he wouldn’t be looming over her. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“I _am_ a virgin,” she confessed. Then she whispered: “I don’t want anything going in me.” 

Sebastian could relate to this. He didn’t want anything in him, either. He said: “There are plenty of ways to have sex without putting…” he stopped himself from saying ‘cock’; she probably wouldn’t like that word, “anything anywhere.” 

“There _are?”_

“Naturally.” He grinned up at her. “Can I touch you?” 

She nodded, eyes never leaving him. 

He rested a hand on her knee. 

* * * * 

“Wait.” He spoke but Augusta kept moving, beginning a steady pace. Severin squirmed, something tightening in his chest. Not something good. He reached out, hands on her hips. “Augusta, _wait.”_

“What is it?” she sounded annoyed, but she stopped. 

“If I …if I wanted you to stop, would you?” he asked. 

She gestured to her frozen position. “Evidently.” 

“What if…what if we were in the middle of it, and suddenly I…” And suddenly he remembered the feeling of four separate, girlish mouths on his clammy skin, of four bodies and their violation. 

“Oh my god, Severin. Is this what you want or not?” she asked. 

“It is, it is! But what if…?”

“Popsicles.” 

“Huh?” 

Augusta reached down, touching her clit while they spoke. “It’s the safe word. You say ‘popsicles,’ and I stop.” 

“Safe word.” Severin blinked. “Ingenious.” 

“I can go?” 

“You can go.” 

Augusta rocked her hips. 

* * * *

Brigitte had allowed her dress to go up to her thighs. His – Sebastian’s – rough hands were on her skin, and she kept her eyes closed. She kept thinking of how she didn’t shave in the winter, of how her skin must be rough. She’d forgotten to lotion that morning. 

And she was so wet it almost felt like she was… She was scared it was going through her undies, that he was going to feel it down her thighs. But just his hands on her felt electric; his touches were so light, but they were leaving her shaking. 

A new sensation. She opened her eyes. 

Sebastian’s lips were on her inner leg, butterfly-light. His eyes were on her face, asking for permission. He was so beautiful. Every time he looked at her she was sure she would burst. 

* * * *

“Popsicles.” She fell on his chest in a heap of giggles. 

He groaned. “No, no, no… Augusta, please, please, please.” 

“Popsicles, popsicles,” she sang. It was so fun like this, feeling good but keeping clear-headed, while her little itty-bitty cousin positively dissolved. 

“Please, please, oh…mmm…” Poor thing, biting his lip so hard it would bleed. 

“Fine, fine,” she sighed. She got back on him, rocked her hips back. He’d been so close to coming, she’d seen it in his eyes. She moved in her sure, steady pattern, watching him build up, up, up, until he got that slack-jawed look again. 

“Popsicles,” she said for the umpteenth time, and popped off him. 

He moaned in frustration. 

* * * *

His hand was up there, his finger and his… He pulled her soaked undies to the side while he, while he…

She rocked, his nose getting pushed against her mound. She’d been self-conscious of her smell, but he was breathing too deeply not to like it; she’d been self-conscious of her taste, but he was lapping too thoroughly not to enjoy it. 

And he was flicking, with his tongue – licking, licking the part she liked most, the…

Her head fell back and she was undone. 

* * * * 

Augusta was surprised he lasted as long as he did, even if she did keep stopping just before he came. Five times. She stopped five times before he came. Well, he was going to turn into _quite_ the man. 

She rode him through his orgasm, not coming herself, just appreciating the way his handsome features twisted so beautifully, the helpless sounds he continued to make. Sebastian, she thought, was right for feeling like his brother’s master. She’d never thought the boy who’d embarrassed her father could be like this, but in bed he was a little bitch.

What a naughty, terrible word. 

“Oh, you,” she said, avoiding his name. She lay beside him, pressing a hand flat on his chest to feel the way it rose and fell. “Look at how pretty you get.” 

* * * * 

He kept his face pressed up against her even as she quivered and shook, rubbing frantically against him, so that it was his nose and not his tongue that ended up pressed against her clit. She was quiet when she came, not a peep. She’d practiced being quiet before. 

He didn’t emerge from the folds of her dress until she took her hand off his shoulder. 

Sebastian’s face was wet with her juices. He was licking his lips, looking as pleased as a cat with warm milk. She giggled. 

“Look,” he said, stroking her cheek. “You’re all pink and glowing. Beautiful.” 

Her voice got caught in her throat, as it often did. No one had called her that before. That was Augusta’s word. 

“You were so gentle,” she whispered. 

He froze, and at first she thought she’d said something wrong. 

“Gentle,” he murmured. “Funny word to choose.” 

“Why?” 

“No one’s ever called me that before.” 

* * * * 

They let Severin and Brigitte – dear, sweet Brigitte, looking like a rose – recompose themselves while Augusta got back into her atrocious dress. Sebastian supposed he should put on his clothes soon. Just as he made to rise, Severin said, “Augusta.” 

“Hm?” 

“The bed.” 

“Oh.” She was suddenly on her knees, reaching beneath Sebastian’s bed. 

“What are you - ?” Sebastian began. But then she pulled out a box. 

“Found it in Father’s office,” Severin said, “when you were sleeping. I think he meant to give it to you next Christmas, but I thought I’d give it to you now.” 

“No,” Augusta said. “His next birthday, you mean.” 

“We don’t get birthdays…” Sebastian said, distracted, reaching for the box. 

A Remington 700 _P._ Police-grade. It was black and cold to the touch. Sebastian immediately wanted to make it hot. 

“Get dressed,” he ordered Severin. He got up. “We’re going to the woods.” 

“During the middle of the Christmas party?” Severin said. 

Sebastian grabbed his undershirt and pulled it on. “Get yours, too. We’ll kill a deer each and bring them home over our shoulders. Impress our guests.” 

He winked at Brigitte, and in fifteen minutes the four were sneaking into the woods. 

* * * * 

They didn’t return to the manor until nightfall, when most of their guests had gone. They hadn’t meant to stay out too long, but once Augusta discovered she enjoyed the feeling of snow on her breasts it’d been hard to leave. When they entered the living room, Severin anticipated finding an angry uncle waiting for them, silent and somber, as Father so often would. 

Instead Uncle Severin was passed out on a sofa, his drunken snores echoing from the high ceiling. Augusta giggled and Brigitte hurried past him. They all dispersed, to go to their separate bedrooms, not wanting to push their luck. 

Severin was making his way alone down a darkened corridor when a hand reached out from an open doorway. He jumped, but it was only Aunt Genevieve. 

“Hello, dear,” she said pleasantly. She smelled strongly of…cherries, maybe. 

“Hello, Aunt Genevieve,” he said. “Can I help you with something?” 

“You can, dear, you can. Why don’t you come in?” She gestured into her guest bedroom. Most of the guest bedrooms were filled with brand new furniture, but this one contained items that looked worn. The dresser was chipped and faded, for example, and Aunt Genevieve had spread her jewelry and makeup all over it. Her possessions filled the whole room, Uncle Severin’s things taking up a tiny, unpacked suitcase in the corner. 

“The bedroom has such a beautiful view, doesn’t it?” she asked as she closed the door. She locked it. 

Moonlight soaked through the window, illuminating her as she approached it. She was wearing a flimsy chemise, transparent from the waist down. Severin didn’t avert his eyes. 

“I can see into the woods from here, you know,” she said, her voice as light as ever. But Severin gulped. When she reached the window, she pulled the thick curtain over the view, enveloping them in darkness. She flicked on a dim lamp. “And I saw the funniest sight from this window, earlier today.” 

“Just my brother, Augusta, and Brigitte.” Might as well fess-up. He’d been an awful host, but she couldn’t get _too_ mad, could she? “We went hunting.” 

“Yes, I saw. And what a gorgeous gun your brother had, didn’t you think so?” she asked. She was wearing pearls around her neck, and she draped herself over the blue _chaise-longue_ in the corner. 

“His gift from our father,” Severin said. But he was a terrible liar, and his voice gave away what she already knew. 

“No.” Her saccharine sweetness was abruptly lost. “No, don’t lie. I know what that was.” 

Severin just stood there, still close to the door. Trying now to look at her; she was nearly naked. Severin had no idea, he realized, how old she was. She looked younger than his uncle. 

“I’m only telling you this,” she said, “so that you can decide if you’d rather I tell your uncle or your father. Either way Sebastian will be punished, of course. Your uncle will be softer.” Her voice filled with dislike. “He’s always soft. But he could tell your father, naturally, and that would be twice the punishment for Sebastian. Is it worth the risk? I’ll leave the decision up to you.” 

“Sebastian didn’t go looking for that gun,” Severin said. “I found it for him. I gave it to him.” 

“But he used it.” 

“Because of me,” he said. 

“Do you think that will make a difference to your uncle? To your father?” 

She was raising her arms over her head as if in languor, it drew up the hemline of her chemise, revealing her pale thighs. Severin took a step forward, and another. He got close enough that, even in the dim lighting, he could tell her panties were made of satin, and red. 

“It’s up to you, Severin,” she was saying, and her voice was almost husky, almost low. 

“You won’t tell uncle,” he said. 

“No?” She looked more like Brigitte than Augusta. “Your father, then?” 

“No, you won’t tell father. You won’t get Sebastian into trouble,” Severin said, his voice growing stronger. 

“And why is that?” she asked. 

“Because if you do,” he said, reaching for his tie, which had deer blood splattered on it, “I will tell the family about the night I took you on the blue _chaise-longue.”_

* * * * 

Their aunt, uncle, and cousins had only intended to stay until Boxer Day, but Brigitte and Aunt Genevieve were so intent upon staying that Uncle Severin decided to postpone their departure. 

“It’s so lovely that the children finally have time to bond as cousins,” Aunt Genevieve said. She had a habit of finding Severin when he was alone and whispering, “Blackmail me, Severin, blackmail me.” She would dress him up in her husband’s clothes and would never call him anything but ‘Severin.’ 

“Sebastian is tutoring me in maths,” Brigitte told her father. One morning, Sebastian’s mouth had led her to four orgasms in a row. Even he, with all of his experience, was surprised by this. He’d delighted her by saying: “Girls are magical creatures.” 

Uncle Severin was very pleased with the unexpected familial bonding. 

* * * *

And when they left, finally, the brothers had what they really wanted. Brigitte was sweet and Aunt Genevieve was…unexpected, but: 

“Brother, brother, brother.” Severin was awoken by Sebastian on top of him, having snuck into his bedroom. “They’ve driven away, brother. It’s just us. Me and my little brother…”

Sebastian was so warm and heavy on top of him and “brother,” he thought, was the most precious word in the world. 

* * * * 

Their happiness could not be tarnished even when Ambassador Moran returned. They met him at the door, backs as rigid as soldiers’, and he congratulated them both on the “excellent behavioral report” Aunt Genevieve had given him. Except for dinners, they scarcely spent time with the man. And Sebastian had forgotten how much easier it was to be around Father when Severin was there, too. All of the dinners were spent hearing how wonderful Severin was, and the attention was drawn mercifully away from him. 

* * * * 

They were playing chess. The afternoon had stretched on lazily like a fat cat, and both of them had been checked twice but neither were aiming for checkmate. A butler walked into the drawing room. 

“You’re requested in Master Moran’s office, Sebastian,” he said. He left without waiting for a response. 

The reaction this triggered was immediate: the day went from calm to nauseating, the room from cozily warm to spinning. For a second Sebastian couldn’t see, he actually lost his sight, Severin sounded far away – 

“Seb, hey. Hey, Seb, it’s fine. He just wants to see you.” Severin was shaking his shoulders. 

“Why?” Sebastian shook his head. Didn’t matter. He was panicking, he was going to pass out. “Go. Please. Say you’re me. Go. Please, please.” 

* * * * 

Sebastian wasn’t sure how Severin had gotten him to stand and walk down the hall, but he did. Sebastian took several deep breaths before he knocked on his father’s office door. He tried to stop his knees from shaking. His father would be furious if he saw his knees shake. Weak, weak. 

“Come in.” Icy, cold. Sebastian was trembling like a leaf. He felt small, like a girl, smaller than Brigitte. 

Thinking about Brigitte was nice. Brigitte seemed to like him, maybe even more than she liked Sev. He thought of Brigitte as he approached his father’s desk, not sitting until he was directed to do so. 

The chair he had to sit in was huge. Couldn’t his father see how small he was? He was going to drown in it. He was drowning. 

When he sat down, his father looked at him from behind a pair of spectacles. Waiting for him to say something, but the office reverberated in silence. Sebastian felt he had stepped onto a stage without knowing his lines. 

“You know why you are here, Sebastian,” his father said. Of course he did. This was about the gun. “Would you like to confess now, and save me some trouble?” 

He wanted to, he did. But he was so tiny, his father couldn’t hear him speaking. He was sorry about the gun. He should have been happy with the SPS. He was sorry, he was sorry. 

His father sighed. “No? Well, Sebastian, I really do have nothing to say to you. You are going to have to be the one to speak. To be quite certain we are on the same page, perhaps I should show you what I found.” 

He reached into his desk drawer. Was he pulling out a bullet that Sebastian had discharged in the woods? How could he have found one? 

He did not directly touch what he pulled out; he held it through the cloth of a handkerchief and smoothed it out on his desk. 

“Begin by telling me to whom these belong,” he said. 

Sebastian sat up and looked. He blinked. A pair of red, satin panties were on the desk, but he didn’t recognize them. 

He found his voice. “I’m not sure, sir,” he said. 

Father took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself. His eyes closed briefly. Sebastian had never seen him unsteady in his life. 

“Let me be clear with you,” Father said. “I know what happened. I am very angry, and I am very hurt. I never expected this kind of betrayal from one of my sons, not even from you. Do not pretend to be ignorant. You are not a boy. Do not make me angrier.” 

Sebastian’s panic flared. Hurt? His father had never been hurt – could - _could_ Ambassador Moran get hurt? 

“But I really don’t know, sir,” he said. His voice was embarrassingly high-pitched. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never seen those – ” 

“Silence!” A fist fell heavy on the desk, making Sebastian jump. “Sebastian, do not try to be noble. I know what kind of woman she is, and you are not protecting anyone. Confess what you have done.” 

Suddenly it clicked. ‘Woman,’ he said, not ‘servant,’ not ‘maid.’ And those panties couldn’t be Augusta’s – she didn’t wear panties. Brigitte’s were all made of cotton. 

Aunt Genevieve. And _he_ certainly hadn’t been touching his aunt, which meant – 

Severin. 

“You are wasting my time, boy. Speak.” 

Sebastian swallowed. He was sinking. Deep, deep. He said, “I… Yes, sir. I confess, sir.” 

“I admit that I did not foresee her having the audacity to go into your mother’s room. It was an evil thing, an evil deed. She is a spiteful, lustful, sinful, and hateful woman, Sebastian, and she took advantage of one of my sons. Or perhaps you did not know? Were you unaware that you made love – no, I cannot call it that – were you unaware that your affair took place on the same _chaise-longue_ where your mother once nursed you? You were first nurtured on that very couch, and she had you _defile_ \- ” 

“Nurse?” Sebastian interrupted. “My mother never nursed me.” 

The room froze. Father’s voice was frost. 

“You interrupt me,” he said. 

Sebastian flinched as if he had been slapped. 

“My mother died in childbirth, sir,” Sebastian said. “That is what you told me, sir.” 

“Your mother,” Father said. “She was never your mother, she never knew you long enough. You were raised by me. Do not talk about my wife, Sebastian. You never knew her.” 

Father rose. Sebastian didn’t move. His heart was pounding beneath his ribcage. 

“Stand,” Father said. “Take off your jacket, your shirt. You will want to leave those here. Keep them clean.” 

Sebastian didn’t move. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Sir,” he said, desperately. “Sir, please – ” 

“You have disrespected my wife, my house, my brother, my son, and a chair that currently means more to me than you do. Go. I will meet you once I find the belt. Wear boots; the snow is cold.” 

Father looked at him and saw what was about to happen. His eyes flashed with a brightness Sebastian had never seen before. With rage. His father had yelled and hurt him before, but he’d always been controlled. His raised voice had been perfectly composed. Right now he shook. 

“If you dare to drop one tear, Sebastian, you will dearly regret it.” 

So Sebastian left the office quickly, before his father could see him cry. 

* * * * 

Severin had waited alone in the drawing room. He was tense, he wanted Sebastian to come back. He was so, so afraid their father had discovered that Sebastian had used his early present, the gun. And, awfully, he was afraid Sebastian was going to tell Father it had been Severin’s idea. 

He heard a scream. 

From downstairs? No, from the window. Another one. Oh… 

He knew those screams. 

He raced to the window, knocking over the chessboard. Yes: Sebastian was up against the shed, on his knees, back bare in the cold. Snow was falling fast down like darts. It probably stung. 

Father was whipping him. 

Except – 

He’d watched Sebastian get whipped before. Always three lashes, sometimes five. Father spoke to him, told him when the next lash was coming. His back would be red afterwards, too sore to lie on. It was awful, but –

Father didn’t seem to be speaking. He held the whip above his own head and brought it cracking down. Again, and again. Again. More than thrice. Much more than five. He wasn’t stopping. 

Severin raced out of the room. 

He ran into Mrs. Getley on the way down the stairs. 

“I was coming to get you!” she said. “Your father, he’s – ” 

“I know.” 

He ran through a back door, pushing away a butler in his haste. He ran out into the yard, to Father’s shed. He was standing eight feet behind Father. 

Father was saying, “He that spareth his rod hateth his son. Do you realize how much I love you, what I have done for you? Can you SEE THAT?” He yelled, actually yelled. His voice echoed through the trees; a flock of birds broke apart from their branches, became small-winged silhouettes in the air. 

“My son is worth more than whores.” The whip came cracking. Sebastian’s back was broken and bleeding, blood gushing down in streams. Father, who was usually so careful about monitoring Sebastian’s injuries, didn’t seem to notice. “My son will not bed beguiling women!” 

_Crack._

Severin stumbled back. He needed to say something, do something. But his father had his belt, it was stained with Sebastian’s blood. 

Sebastian had stopped screaming, didn’t whimper. He was surrounded by a pool of bloodied snow. 

“Take it like a man.” _Crack._ “It is not the women you lie with, Sebastian, it is the pain you can bear. It is accepting consequences. This is manhood, Sebastian. Your whore of an aunt will never have to face this, could never live through this. Show me how much better you are than her!” 

When the belt next cracked down, Severin saw why Sebastian was bleeding: their father was hitting with the wrong end of the belt. The silver belt buckle glimmered in the moonlight just before it broke Sebastian’s skin. 

Severin ran inside. 

* * * * 

Sebastian was in the hospital for two days. Severin was not permitted to see him. When he returned, Father didn’t request to talk to him. Severin imagined Sebastian was relieved. The role of nursing him fell on Mrs. Getley. 

Severin came into Sebastian’s bedroom. He’d only been home for ten minutes but was already lying down on his stomach. He was wearing sweatpants and hospital socks. 

“Big brother,” Severin said. Sebastian’s eyes flickered open and Severin got on his knees, looking up at him. Sebastian bared his teeth, and Severin thought he was angry, thought he was looking at Severin and seeing Aunt Genevieve, seeing a blue _chaise-longue._

Then he realized Sebastian was laughing. It was muffled by his blankets. 

“What’s funny?” Severin said. 

“Do you even realize you do that?” Sebastian asked. 

“Do what?” 

Sebastian reached out and, very slowly, patted the top of his head. 

“Nothing, brother. You’re just so small.” 

Severin had no idea what he meant. He said, “And you’re all drugged up on pain meds, aren’t you?” 

“I hope so.” 

There was silence. 

Then: “You called 999 for me?” 

“Yeah,” Severin said. 

“That’s the only reason he stopped.” 

“I know,” Severin said, quietly. 

“A nurse talked about getting the police involved. I think she only bothered saying it to make money. She was paid off before I even got a hospital bed.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. 

“I’ve never seen him so angry,” Severin said. It was funny: he should be drowning in guilt, but instead he just felt…good. To be beside his brother. Sebastian couldn’t stand on his own, but somehow Severin felt safe. 

“It was the gun, right?” Severin said suddenly. “That’s why you got in trouble?” 

Sebastian’s eyes opened. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “It was the gun.” 

Severin swallowed. “Did you tell him I did it?” 

“No,” Sebastian said. “I didn’t.” 

When Mrs. Getley came in later to renew Sebastian’s pain meds, she found them on the bed together. Severin asked her not to tell anyone, and she said she wouldn’t.


	18. City

Over seven hours, now, and the English countryside was still rushing by. Jim had never been to England before; in the dark he could see almost nothing, only faint traces of light. He was not surprised when it did not thrill him. 

Could anything surprise him, anymore? He’d been in the world for nearly a decade; he knew everything. 

His mum hadn’t asked whose house he was sleeping over, although she’d practically sobbed with delight when he said he’d be gone for the weekend. She didn’t want him around. 

Rich was dull and sulky these days. For once he wasn’t even excited for Christmas vacation, especially not after mum had told him she couldn’t afford to mail his gift to Carl’s house all the way in London. The gift was a short story he’d written, a drawing of Rich and Carl holding hands (it was not a good drawing), and a batch of cookies he’d baked. It was the cookies that weighed too much to put in the post. The story and drawing Jim had snatched, and packed with him, along with a pair of Richard’s pajamas. 

When the train came to a stop, a train worker saw that Jim got off the train alright. Jim had written up a note in his mother’s handwriting saying he had her permission to travel. It’d gotten him on the train, but just barely. 

He’d never been on a train before, and he’d never been to a city. Dublin, maybe, once or twice, but he couldn’t remember. This wasn’t Dublin, this was London. Probably they would be the same: not worth remembering. 

The station: the trains are all huffing with steam, emitting locomotive gurgles. Jim had read all about trains, but books and words could never be this big. He was surrounded by row after row of trains, conductors in sharp hats shouting, “All aboard!”, an ever-changing chart standing meters away, declaring which trains were coming, leaving, delayed, going here, there, all over the world. 

“Excuse me.” 

“Outta the fuckin’ way.” 

_“Oof!”_

Bodies tripped over him. He was so small, a varmint on their shoes. He scurried out of the way, found a sign, forced himself to appear calm lest a police officer stopped him and asked where he was going, where was his mummy. 

He got into a taxi. He had written the address down on a scrap of cardboard that was torn off a cereal box, with his favorite pencil. 

He’d never been in a taxi before. 

His nose was pressed against the back window the whole time, or at least until he was done looking at the driver. The driver was singing with the radio in a language Jim had never heard before. It would had sounded like a song even if he weren’t singing, Jim thought. 

The man stopped the car and waited for Jim to open his own door – no, to pay the money. Jim did, hands fumbling over the change. His heart was pounding. There were so many people on the street; he could see them through the window. He could see the number of the house – no, this was an apartment building – he was supposed to go to. It was right outside the cab. 

He got out. The taxi drove away. For one moment, Jim was alone in London. His first time in London. 

He looked up. 

The building before him was massive. It stretched up high, like all the surrounding buildings – these structures could gobble people. There were bodies all over the street, walking fast. Different accents, different languages – this was a city, a city like the ones Rich would read about, would read about aloud, with the market squares and the culture and the crime. Bigger than life. This was a city, a place that breathed even right now, when it wasn’t yet seven in the morning. 

It took him a bit to figure out how to work the buzzer – he’d never seen one before – but eventually the door was opened. He expected to have to find the right flat on his own, but waiting for him, right there, so eager and expectant, was Carl. The bigger boy was bouncing on the balls of his feet, and as soon as Jim let the building door close behind him – blocking out the sounds of traffic – Carl leapt forward.

He collected Jim into a hug, squeezed. Jim squeezed back, making a soft noise in his throat.

“I've missed you so much," Jim said.

“I’ve missed you so, so much, too, Richie!" Carl cried. 

  
END OF PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far (wow!), know that Part II is not posted yet. The work that says it's Part II is a sliver of Part IV I wrote in December.
> 
> Part II to come.


End file.
